DIVIDE 


'iLLIAM 
VAVGrtN 
MOODY 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


< 
z 


SANTA     CRUZ 


Gift 

In  Memory  of 
IAY  DWIGGINS,  JR. 


SANTA     CRUZ 


THE  GREAT  DIVIDE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  -   CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •   CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE  GREAT  DIVIDE 

C^ee 


BY 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1910 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,   1906,   BY  WILLIAM   VAUGHN  MOODY, 

for  the  United  States  of  America.    Copyright,  1906,  for  Great 

Britain.    Protected  in  all  those  countries  of  Europe  which 

have  adopted  the  articles  of  the  Berne  convention. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  rights  of  production,  translation, 

and  adaptation. 

The  American  and  English  rights  controlled  by  Henry  Miller, 

338  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York.     European  rights  « 

Elisabeth  Marbury,  1430  Broadway,  New  York. 

Reprinted  June,  1910. 


TO 
HENRY   MILLER 

IN  GRATITUDE  AND   FRIENDSHIP 
THIS  BOOK  IS   DEDICATED. 


TS 


6-7 


PERSONS   OF   THE   PLAY 

PHILIP  JORDAN 

POLLY  JORDAN,  Philip's  wife 

MRS.  JORDAN,  his  mother 

RUTH  JORDAN,  his  sister 

WINTHROP  NEWBURY 

DR.  NEWBURY,    Winthrop' s  father 

STEPHEN  GHENT 

LON   ANDERSON 

BURT  WILLIAMS 

DUTCH 

A  MEXICAN 

A  CONTRACTOR 

AN  ARCHITECT 

A  BOY 


ACT  I 


ACT  I 

Interior  of  Philip  Jordan's  cabin  in  southern  Arizona, 
on  a  late  afternoon  in  spring.  A  large  room  rudely 
built,  adorned  with  blankets,  pottery,  weapons,  and 
sacred  images  of  the  local  Indian  tribes,  and  hung 
with  trophies  of  the  chase,  together  with  hunting- 
knives,  saddles,  bridles,  nose-bags  for  horses,  lariats, 
and  other  paraphernalia  of  frontier  life.  Through 
a  long  low  window  at  the  back  the  desert  is  seen, 
intensely  colored,  and  covered  with  the  uncouth  shapes 
of  giant  cacti,  dotted  with  bunches  of  gorgeous  bloom. 
The  entrance  door  is  on  the  left  (from  the  spectators 
standpoint"),  in  a  projecting  elbow  of  the  room;  farther 
to  the  left  is  a  door  leading  to  the  sleeping-quarters. 
On  the  right  is  a  cook-stove,  a  cupboard  for  dishes 
and  household  utensils,  and  a  chimney-piece,  over 
which  hangs  a  bleached  cows-skull  supporting  a 
rifle. 


At  a  rude  table  in  the  centre  sits  Philip  Jordan,  a  man 
of  thirty-four,  mending  a  bridle.  Polly,  his  wife, 
kneels  before  an  open  trunk,  assisted  in  her  pack- 
ing by  Winthrop  Newbury,  a  recent  graduate  of  an 
Eastern  medical  college.  Ruth  Jordan,  Philip's  sis- 
ter, a  girl  of  nineteen,  stands  at  the  window  looking 
out. 


4  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

WlNTHROP. 
As  he  hands  the  last  articles  to  Polly. 

What  on  earth  possessed  you  to  bring  such  a  load 
of  duds  to  Arizona? 

POLLY. 

They  promised  me  a  good  time,  meaning  one 
small  shindig  —  one  —  in  the  three  months  I ' ve 
spent  in  this  unholy  place. 

Philip  makes  an  impatient  movement  with  the  bridle  ; 
speaks  gruffly. 

PHILIP. 
You  'd  better  hurry.   It 's  getting  late. 

RUTH. 

From,  the  window. 

It 's  getting  cooler,  which  is  more  to  the  point. 
We  can  make  the  railroad  easily  by  sunrise,  with 
this  delicious  breeze  blowing. 

POLLY. 

Gives  the  finishing  touches  to  the  trunk  and  locks  the 
lid. 

There,  at  last !  Heaven  help  the  contents. 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  5 

PHILIP. 

Gruffly,  as  he  rises. 

Give  me  a  lift  with  the  trunk,  Win. 

They  carry  the  trunk  outside.  Polly,  with  the  aid  of  a 
cracked  mirror,  puts  on  her  travelling  hat  and  cloak. 

RUTH. 

My,  Pollikins!  You'll  be  the  talk  of  all  the  jack- 
rabbits  and  sage  hens  between  here  and  the  rail- 
road. 

POLLY. 

Phil  is  furious  at  me  for  going,  and  it  is  rather 
mean  to  sneak  off  for  a  visit  in  a  grand  house  in 
San  Francisco,  when  you  poor  dears  have  to  slave 
on  here.  But  really,  I  can't  endure  this  life  a  day 
longer. 

RUTH. 

It  is  n't  in  nature  that  you  should.  Fancy  that 
(she  indicates  Polly  with  a  grandiose  gesture)  nourish- 
ing itself  on  salt-pork,  chickory  beans,  and  air- 
tight! 

POLLY. 

Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  apart  from  your 
pride  in  helping  your  brother,  making  the  project 


6  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

go,  and  saving  the  family  fortunes,  you  really 
enjoy  yourself  here? 

RUTH. 

Since  Phil  and  I  came  out,  one  day  has  been  more 
radiantly  exciting  than  the  other.  I  don't  know 
what 's  the  matter  with  me.  I  think  I  shall  be 
punished  for  being  so  happy. 

POLLY. 

Punished  for  being  happy !  There  's  your  simon- 
pure  New-Englander. 

RUTH. 

True !  I  was  discovered  at  the  age  of  seven  in  the 
garret,  perusing  "The  Twelve  Pillars  and  Four 
Cornerstones  of  a  Godly  Life." 

POLLY. 
Pointing  at  Ruth's  heart,  speaks  with  mock  solemnity. 

If  Massachusetts  and  Arizona  ever  get  in  a  mixup 
in  there,  woe  be !  —  Are  you  ever  going  to  have 
that  coffee  done? 

RUTH. 

I  hope  soon,  before  you  get  me  analyzed  out  of 
existence. 


ACT  I]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  7 

POLLY. 

As  Ruth  busies  herself  at  the  stove. 

The  main  point  is  this,  my  dear,  and  you  'd 
better  listen  to  what  the  old  lady  is  a-tellin'  of  ye. 
Happiness  is  its  own  justification,  and  it 's  the 
sacreder  the  more  unreasonable  it  is.  It  comes 
or  it  does  n't,  that 's  all  you  can  say  about  it. 
And  when  it  comes,  one  has  the  sense  to  grasp 
it  or  one  has  n't.  There  you  have  the  Law  and 
the  Prophets. 

Winthrop  and  Philip  enter  from  outside.  Ruth,  who 
has  set  out  the  coffee  and  sandwiches  on  the  table, 
bows  elaborately,  with  napkin  over  arm. 

RUTH. 

Messieurs  et  Mesdames! 

WINTHROP. 

Coffee !  Well,  rather,  with  an  all-night  ride  in 
the  desert  ahead  of  us. 

They  drink  their  coffee,  Philip  standing  sullenly  apart. 
Where  do  we  get  our  next  feed? 

RUTH. 
With  luck,  at  Cottonwood  Wash. 


8  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

WlNTHROP. 

And  how  far  may  Cotton  wood  Wash  be? 

RUTH. 
Thirty  miles. 

WlNTHROP. 

Sarcastically. 

Local  measurement? 

POLLY. 
Poking  Philip. 

Phil,    for   Heaven's   sake   say  something.    You 
diffuse  the  gloom  of  the  Pit. 

PHILIP. 

I  Ve  had  my  say  out,  and  it  makes  absolutely 
no  impression  on  you. 

POLLY. 

It  's  the  impression  on  the  public  I  'm  anxious 
about. 

PHILIP. 
The  public  will  have  to  excuse  me. 


ACT  I]  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  9 

POLLY. 

I  am  horribly  sorry  for  you  two  poor  dears,  left 
alone  in  this  dreadful  place.  When  Dr.  Newbury 
goes,  I    don't   see  how   you  '11  support   life.    I 
should  like  to  know  how  long  this  sojourn  in  the 
wilderness  is  going  to  last,  anyhow. 
During  the  following,  Ruth  takes  a  candle  from  the 
shelf,  lights  it,  and  brings  it  to  the  table.    The  sun- 
set gloiv  has  begun  to  fade. 

RUTH. 
Till  Cactus  Fibre  makes  our  eternal  fortune. 

WINTHROP. 
And  how  long  will  that  be? 

RUTH. 

Counts  on  her  fingers. 

Two  years  to  pay  back  the  money  we  raised  on 
mother's  estate,  two  years  of  invested  profits, 
two  years  of  hard  luck  and  marking  time,  two 
years  of  booming  prosperity.  Say  eight  years! 

POLLY. 

Shades  of  the  tomb!  How  long  do  you  expect 
to  live? 


io  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT 

RUTH. 

Forever ! 

The  sound  of  a  galloping  horse  is  heard,  muffled  by  th 
sand. 

WlNTHROP. 

Listen.  What 's  that? 

A  boy  of  fifteen,  panting  from  his  rapid  ride,  appear 
at  the  open  door. 

PHILIP. 

Rising  and  going  toward  the  door. 
What 's  the  matter? 

BOY. 
I  Ve  come  for  the  doctor. 

PHILIP. 
Who  wants  a  doctor? 

BOY. 

Your  man  Sawyer,  over  to  Lone  Tree.  —  He '; 
broke  his  leg. 

RUTH. 
Broken  his  leg!  Sawyer?  Our  foreman? 


ACT  i]  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  n 

PHILIP. 
There 's  a  nice  piece  of  luck ! — How  did  it  happen? 

BOY. 

They  was  doin'  some  Navajo  stunts  on  horse- 
back, pullin'  chickens  out  of  the  sand  at  a  gallop 
and  takin'  a  hurdle  on  the  upswing.  Sawyer's 
horse  renigged,  and  lunged  off  agin  a  'dobe  wall. 
Smashed  his  leg  all  to  thunder. 

Winthrop  looks  vaguely  about  for  his  kit  and  travel- 
ling necessaries,  while  Polly  gives  the  boy  food, 
which  he  accepts  shyly  as  he  goes  outside  with 
Philip.  Ruth  has  snatched  saddle  and  bridle  from 
their  peg. 

RUTH. 

I  '11  have  Buckskin  saddled  for  you  in  a  jiffy. 
How  long  will  it  take  you  to  set  the  leg? 

WINTHROP. 
Perhaps  an  hour,  perhaps  three. 

RUTH. 

It 's  a  big  detour,  but  you  can  catch  us  at  Cot- 
tonwood  Wash  by  sunrise,  allowing  three  hours 
for  Sawyer.  Buckskin  has  done  it  before. 

She  goes  out. 


12  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

POLLY. 

Pouting. 

This  will  spoil  all  our  fun !  Why  can't  the  crea- 
ture wait  till  you  get  back? 

WINTHROP. 
Did  you  ever  have  a  broken  leg? 

POLLY. 

Well,  no,  not  exactly  a  leg.  But  I  've  had  a  broken 
heart !  In  fact,  I  Ve  got  one  now,  if  you  're  not 
going  with  us. 

WINTHROP. 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  mine  is  broken  too. 
Pause. 

Did  you  ever  dream  of  climbing  a  long  hill,  and 
having  to  turn  back  before  you  saw  what  was 
on  the  other  side? 
Polly  nods  enthusiastically. 

I  feel  as  if  I  'd  had  my  chance  to-night  to  see 
what  was  over  there,  and  lost  it. 

POLLY. 
You  '11  excuse  me  if  it  sounds  personal,  Dr.  New- 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  13 

bury,  but  did  you  expect  to  discern  a  —  sort  of 
central  figure  in  the  outrolled  landscape? 

WINTHROP. 

Embarrassed,  repenting  of  his  sentimental  outburst. 
No.  That  is  — 

POLLY. 

With  a  sweep  of  her  arm. 
O,  I  see.  Just  scenery ! 

She  laughs  and  goes  into  the  inner  room,  left.  Ruth 
reenters.  The  sky  has  partly  faded  and  a  great  full 
moon  begins  to  rise. 

RUTH. 

Buckskin  is  ready,  and  so  is  the  moon.  The  boy 
knows  the  trails  like  an  Indian.  He  will  bring 
you  through  to  Cottonwood  by  daylight. 

WINTHROP. 

Taking  heart. 

We  shall  have  the  ride  back  together,  at  any  rate. 

RUTH. 

Yes.  —  I  would  go  with  you,  and  try  to  do 
something  to  make  poor  Sawyer  comfortable,  but 


14  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  i 

we  have  n't  another  horse  that  can  do  the  dis- 
tance. 

She  holds  out  her  hand. 
Good-bye. 

WlNTHROP. 

Detaining  her  hand. 

Won't  you  make  it  up  to  me? 
He  draws  her  toward  him. 

RUTH. 

Gently  but  firmly. 
No,  Win.   Please  not. 

WlNTHROP. 

Never  ? 

RUTH. 

Life  is  so  good  just  as  it  is !  Let  us  not  change  it. 

He  drops  her  hand,  and  goes  out,  without  looking  back. 
Polly  reenters.  The  women  wave  Winthrop  good- 
bye. 

POLLY. 

Takes  Ruth  by  the  shoulders  and  looks  at  her  severely. 
Conscience  clear? 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  15 

RUTH. 

Humoring  her. 

Crystal ! 

POLLY. 

Counts  on  her  fingers. 

Promising  young  physician,  charming  girl,  lonely 
ranch,  horseback  excursions,  spring  of  the  year ! 

RUTH. 
Not  guilty. 

POLLY. 
Gracious !  Then  it 's  not  play,  it 's  earnest. 

RUTH. 

Neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  It 's  just  your  little 
blonde  romantic  noddle. 

She  takes  Polly  s  head  between  her  hands  and  shakes 
it  as  if  to  show  its  emptiness. 

Do  you  think  if  I  wanted  to  flirt,  I  would  select 

a  youth  I  Ve  played  hookey  with,  and  seen  his 

mother  spank? 

Suddenly  sobered. 

Poor  dear  Win!    He  's  so  good,  so  gentle  and 


16  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

chivalrous.  But  —  (with  a  movement  of  lifted  arms, 
as  if  for  air)  ah  me,  he  's  —  finished !  I  want  one 
that  is  n't  finished ! 

POLLY. 
Are  you  out  of  your  head,  you  poor  thing? 

RUTH. 

You  know  what  I  mean  well  enough.  Winthrop 
is  all  rounded  off,  a  completed  product.  But  the 
man  I  sometimes  see  in  my  dreams  is  —  (pausing 
for  a  simile]  —  well,  like  this  country  out  here, 
don't  vou  know — ? 

She  breaks  off,  searching  for  words,  and  makes  a  vague 
outline  in  the  air,  to  indicate  bigness  and  incompletion. 

POLLY. 
Drily. 

Yes,  thank  you.  I  do  know!  Heaven  send  you 
joy  of  him ! 

RUTH 

Heaven  won't,  because,  alas,  he  does  n't  exist ! 
I  am  talking  of  a  sublime  abstraction  —  of  the 
glorious  unfulfilled  —  of  the  West  —  the  Desert. 


ACT  I]  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  17 

POLLY. 

Lifts  Ruth's  chin,  severely. 

We  have  n't  by  chance,  some  spring  morning, 
riding  over  to  the  trading-station  or  elsewhere  — 
just  by  the  merest  chance  beheld  a  sublime  ab- 
straction —  say  in  blue  overalls  and  jumper? 

Ruth  shakes  her  head. 
Honest  ? 

More  emphatic  head-shaking.  Polly  drops  Ruths  chin 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  Philip  enters. 

RUTH. 

Putting  on  her  riding-hat. 
Is  Pinto  saddled? 

PHILIP. 
Pinto  is  gone. 

RUTH. 

Astonished. 
Gone  where  ? 

PHILIP. 

To  that  Mexican  blow-out  over  at  Lone  Tree. 
Every  man- jack  on  the  ranch  has  disappeared, 


18  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE          [ACT  I 

without  leave  asked  or  notice  given,  except  this 
paper  which  I  just  found  nailed  to  the  factory 
door. 

Ruth  takes  the  note  and  reads  it  anxiously.     Then  she 
slowly  removes  her  hat  and  lays  it  away. 

What  are  you  up  to  now?  We  've  no  time  to  lose ! 

RUTH. 

With  quiet  determination. 

I  am  not  going. 

POLLY. 

As  Philip  turns  in  surprise. 
Not  going? 

RUTH. 
I  must  stay  and  look  after  the  ranch. 

PHILIP. 
O,  come,  that 's  out  of  the  question ! 

RUTH. 

We  have  put  all  mother's  money  into  this  venture. 
We  can't  take  any  risks. 


ACT  I]  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  19 

PHILIP. 

The  men  will  be  back  to-morrow.  It 's  not  to  be 
thought  of  —  your  staying  here  all  alone. 

POLLY. 

Seats  herself  with  decision. 

One  thing  is  certain:  either  Ruth  goes  or  I  stay. 

PHILIP. 

Takes  off  his  hat  and  sets  down  the  provision  basket. 
That  suits  me  perfectly ! 

POLLY. 

Hysterical. 

But  I  can't  stay!   I  won't  stay!    I  shall  go  mad 

if  I  spend  another  night  in  this  place. 

RUTH. 

No,  you  must  n't  stay.  You  would  never  get  us 
worked  up  to  the  point  of  letting  you  go,  another 
time. 

She  lifts  Polly,  and  with  arm  around  her  waist  leads 
her  to  the  door. 

PHILIP. 

I  refuse  to  leave  you  here  alone,  just  to  satisfy 
a  whim  of  Polly's.  That  's  flat ! 


20  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

RUTH. 

But,  Phil,  you  forget  the  stores  you  're  to  fetch 
back.  They  will  be  dumped  out  there  on  the 
naked  sand,  and  by  to-morrow  night  - 

She  blows  across  her  palm,  as  if  scattering  thistledown. 

PHILIP. 

Well,  what  of  it?  A  few  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  stuff ! 

RUTH. 

A  few  hundred  dollars  means  sink  or  swim  with  us 
just  now. —  Besides,  there 's  poor  Sawyer.  He'll 
be  brought  back  here  to-morrow,  and  nobody  to 
nurse  him.  Then  inflammation,  fever,  and  good- 
bye Sawyer. 

Philip,  with  a  gesture  of  accepting  the  inevitable,  picks 
up  the  grain-sacks  and  basket. 

POLLY. 

At  the  door,  embracing  Ruth. 

Good-bye,  dear.  Are  n't  you  really  afraid  to  stay? 

RUTH. 
I  'm  awfully  sorry  to  miss  the  fun,  but  as  for 


ACT  I]  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  21 

danger,  the  great  Arizona  Desert  is  safer  than 
Beacon  Hill. 

POLLY. 
You  're  sure? 

RUTH. 

If  marauders  prowl,  I  '11  just  fire  the  blunderbuss 
out  the  window,  and  they  won't  stop  running  this 
side  of  the  Great  Divide. 

POLLY. 

Kissing  her. 
Good-bye,  dear. 

RUTH. 
Good-bye. 
Polly  goes  out. 

PHILIP. 

Pausing  beside  Ruth>  at  the  door. 

Mind  you  put  out  the  light  early.  It  can  be  seen 
from  the  Goodwater  trail.  There  's  no  telling 
what  riff-raff  will  be  straggling  back  that  way 
after  the  dance. 


22  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  i 

RUTH. 

Riff-raff !  They  're  my  sworn  knights  and  bro- 
thers. 

PHILIP. 

In  that  case,  what  makes  you  uneasy  about  the 
property? 

RUTH. 

O,  property !  That  's  different. 

PHILIP. 
Well,  you  mind  what  I  say  and  put  out  the  light. 

RUTH. 

Yours  for  prudence ! 

She  puts  her  arm  around  his  waist  and  draws  him  to 
her,  kissing  him  tenderly. 

Good-bye,  Phil. 

He  kisses  her  and  starts  to  go.  She  still  detains  him. 
When  she  speaks  again,  her  voice  is  softened  and 
awed. 

What  a  lovely  night !  Who  would  ever  think  to 
call  this  a  desert,  this  moonlit  ocean  of  flowers? 
What  millions  of  cactus  blooms  have  opened 
since  yesterday ! 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  23 

PHILIP. 

Looking  at  her  dubiously. 

What  fs  the  matter  with  you  to-night? 

RUTH. 

Nothing.  Everything.  Life !  —  I  don't  know 
what 's  got  into  me  of  late.  I  'm  just  drunk  with 
happiness  the  whole  time. 

PHILIP. 

Well,  you  're  a  queer  one.  —  Good-bye.   I  shall 
get  back  as  soon  as  horseflesh  will  do  it. 
He  goes  out. 

RUTH. 

As  the  rumble  of  the  wagon  is  heard. 
Good-bye!    Good-bye,  Pollikins!    Good-bye! 

She  takes  the  candle  from  the  table  and  stands  in  the 
door  for  a  time,  then  raises  the  light  in  one  hand  and 
waves  her  handkerchief  with  the  other.  She  sets  the 
candle  again  on  the  table,  goes  to  the  mantel-shelf,  and 
takes  down  a  photograph. 

Dear  Win !  I  forgot  how  disappointed  you  were 
going  to  be. 

Pause y  during  which  she  still  gazes  at  the  picture. 


24  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  i 

Clear,  kind  heart! 

After  a  moment  she  replaces  it  brusquely  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  raises  her  arms  above  her  head  with  a 
deep  breath.  She  stands  thus,  with  arms  crossed  be- 
hind her  head,  looking  at  the  photograph.  Her  gaze 
becomes  amused  and  mischievous ;  she  points  her 
finger  at  the  picture  and  whispers  mockingly. 

Finished !    Finished ! 

She  begins  to  prepare  for  bed,  taking  down  her  hair, 
and  re-coiling  it  loosely  during  the  following.  She 
hums  a  tune  vaguely  and  in  snatches,  then  with  a 
stronger  rhythm  ;  at  last  she  sings. 

Heart,  wild  hearty 
Brooding  apart, 

Why  dost  thou  doubt,  and  why  art  thou  sullen  ? 
Flower  and  bird 
Wait  but  thy  word  — 

She  breaks  off,  picks  up  a  photograph  from  the  table, 
and  looks  at  it  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

Poor  little  mother !  You  look  out  at  me  with  such 
patient,  anxious  eyes.  There  are  better  days 
coming  for  you,  and  it 's  troublesome  me  that 's 
bringing  them.  Only  you  trust  me ! 

A  mans  face  appears  at  the  edge  of  the  window,  gazing 
stealthily  in.  As  Ruth  turns,  he  disappears.  She  lays 
down  the  picture  and  sings  again. 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  25 

This  is  the  hour, 

And  thine  is  the  power. 
Heart,  high  heart,  be  brave  to  begin  it. 

Dare  you  refuse  ? 

Think  what  we  lose  I 
Think  what  we  gain  — 

The  words  grow  indistinct  as  she  takes  up  the  candle 
and  passes  into  the  other  room,  from  which  her  voice 
sounds  from  time  to  time  in  interrupted  song.  The 
man  again  appears,  shading  his  face  with  a  peaked 
Mexican  hat  so  as  to  see  into  the  darkened  room.  He 
turns  and  waves  his  hand  as  if  signalling  distant 
persons  to  approach,  then  enters  through  the  open 
door.  He  looks  cautiously  about  the  room,  tiptoes  to 
the  inner  door  and  listens,  then  steals  softly  out,  and 
is  seen  again  at  the  window,  beckoning.  Ruth  reen' 
ters,  carrying  the  candle.  She  is  shod  in  moccasins, 
and  clad  in  a  loose,  dark  sleeping-dress,  belted  at  the 
waist,  with  wide,  hanging  sleeves  and  open  throat. 
As  she  crosses  to  the  table  she  sings. 

Heart  which  the  cold 

Long  did  enfold  — 

Hark,  from  the  dark  eaves  the  night  thaw  drum- 
meth  1 

Now  as  a  god, 

Speak  to  the  sod, 
Cry  to  the  sky  that  the  miracle  comethl 


26  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

She  passes  her  hand  over  a  great  bunch  of  wild  flowers 
on  the  table. 

Be  still,  you  beauties!  You'll  drive  me  to  dis- 
traction with  your  color  and  your  odor.  I'll  take 
a  hostage  for  your  good  behavior. 

She  selects  a  red  flower,  puts  it  in  the  dark  mass  of 
her  hair,  and  looks  out  at  the  open  door. 

What  a  scandal  the  moon  is  making,  out  there 
in  that  great  crazy  world!  Who  but  me  could 
think  of  sleeping  on  such  a  night? 

She  sits  down,  folds  the  flower  sin  her  arms,  and  buries 
her  face  in  them.  After  a  moment  she  starts  upy 
listens,  goes  hurriedly  to  the  door,  and  peers  out.  She 
then  shuts  and  bolts  the  door,  draws  the  curtains  be- 
fore the  window,  comes  swiftly  to  the  table,  and  blows 
out  the  light.  The  room  is  left  in  total  darkness. 
There  are  muttering  voices  outside,  the  latch  is  tried, 
then  a  heavy  lunge  breaks  the  bolt.  A  man  pushes  in, 
but  is  hurled  back  by  a  taller  man,  with  a  snarling 
oath.  A  third  figure  advances  to  the  table,  and  strikes 
a  match.  As  soon  as  the  match  is  lighted  Ruth  levels 
the  gun,  which  she  has  taken  from  its  rack  above  the 
mantel.  There  is  heard  the  click  of  the  hammer,  as 
the  gun  misses  fire.  It  is  instantly  struck  from  her 
hand  by  the  first  man  {Dutch},  who  attempts  to  seize 
her.  She  evades  him,  and  tries  to  wrest  a  pistol  from 
a  holster  on  the  wall.  She  is  met  by  the  second  man 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  27 

(Shorty),  who  frustrates  the  attempt,  pocketing  the 
weapon.  While  this  has  be  en  going  on  the  third  man 
(Ghent)  has  been  fumbling  with  the  lamp,  which 
he  has  at  last  succeeded  in  lighting.  All  three  are 
dressed  in  rttde  frontier  fashion ;  the  one  called 
Shorty  is  a  Mexican  half-breed,  the  others  are  Ameri- 
cans. Ghent  is  younger  than  Dutch,  and  taller,  but 
less  powerfully  built.  All  are  intoxicated,  but  not 
sufficiently  so  to  incapacitate  them  from  rapid  action. 
The  Mexican  has  seized  Ruth  and  attempts  to  drag 
her  toward  the  inner  room.  She  breaks  loose,  and 
flies  back  again  to  the  chimney-place,  where  she  stands 
at  bay.  Ghent  remains  motionless  and  silent  by  the 
table,  gazing  at  her. 

DUTCH. 

Uncorking  a  whiskey  flask. 
Plucky  little  catamount.   I  drink  its  health. 
Drinks. 

RUTH. 
What  do  you  want  here? 

DUTCH. 

Laughs,  with  sinister  relish. 

Did  you  hear  that,  Steve? 

He  drinks  again,  and  reaches  out  the  flask  to  Ruth. 


28  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

Take  one,  and  pull  in  its  purty  little  claws,  eh? 
Jolly  time.    No  more  fuss  and  fury. 

Ruth  reaches  for  a  knife,  hidden  behind  the  elbow  of 
the  chimney.  Dutch  wrests  the  knife  from  her  and 
seizes  her  in  his  arms. 

Peppery  little  devil ! 

With  desperate  strength  she  breaks  from  his  clutch  and 
reels  from  him  in  sickness  of  horror.  Ghent  remains 
gazing  at  her  in  a  fascinated  semi-stupor.  Mean- 
while, after  closing  the  door,  the  Mexican  has  taken 
dice  from  his  pocket,  and,  throwing  them  into  a  small 
vase  on  the  table,  shakes  them  and  holds  out  the  vase 
to  Dutch.  He  takes  it  and  turns  to  Ghent ;  the  latter 
has  moved  a  step  or  two  toward  Ruth,  who  in  her  re- 
treat has  reached  the  chimney-piece  and  stands  at  bay. 

DUTCH. 

Come,  get  into  the  game,  curse  you,  Steve !  This 
is  going  to  be  a  free-for-all,  by  God ! 
As  he  rattles  the  dice,  Ruth  makes  a  supplicating  ges- 
ture to  Ghent. 

RUTH. 
Save  me !  save  me ! 

Her  gesture  is  frozen  by  his  advancing  towards  her. 
She  looks  wildly  about,  shrinking  from  him,  then 
with  sudden  desperate  resolution  speaks. 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  29 

Save  me,  and  I  will  make  it  up  to  you ! 

Ghent  again  advances ;  she  goes  on  pantingly,  as  she 
stands  at  bay. 

Don't  touch  me!  Listen!  Save  me  from  these 
others,  and  from  yourself,  and  I  will  pay  you — 
with  my  life. 

GHENT. 

With  dull  wonder. 

With  —  your  life? 

RUTH. 
With  all  that  I  am  or  can  be. 

GHENT. 

What  do  you  mean?  — 
Pause. 

You  mean  you  '11  go  along  with  me  out  of  this? 
Stick  to  me  —  on  the  square? 

RUTH 

In  a  tragic  whisper. 

Yes. 

GHENT. 

On  the  dead  square? 


30  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

RUTH. 
Yes. 

GHENT. 
You  won't  peach,  and  spoil  it? 

RUTH. 

No. 

Pause,  during  which  he  looks  at  her  fixedly. 

V  ,. 

GHENT. 
Give  me  your  hand  on  it ! 

She  gives  him  her  hand.  The  other  men,  at  the  table, 
have  drawn  their  weapons,  and  hold  them  carelessly, 
but  alert  to  the  slightest  suspicious  movement  on  the 
part  of  Ghent. 

DUTCH. 

As  Ghent  turns  to  them. 

Shorty  and  rne  's  sittin'  in  this  game,  and  inter- 
ested, eh,  Shorty? 

The  Mexican  nods.  Ghent  comes  slowly  to  the  table, 
eyeing  the  two. 

Dutch  holds  out  the  vase  containing  the  dice. 
Shake  for  her ! 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  31 

GHENT. 
Shake  how? 

DUTCH. 

Any  damn  way!   Sole  and  exclusive  rights.    Li- 
cense to  love  and  cherish  on  the  premises ! 

Ghent  takes  the  vase,  shakes  the  dice  meditatively,  is 
about  to  throw,  then  sets  the  vase  down.  He  searches 
through  his  pockets  and  produces  a  few  bills  and  a 
handful  of  silver,  which  he  lays  on  the  table. 

GHENT. 

There 's  all  I  've  got  in  my  clothes.  Take  it,  and 
give  me  a  free  field,  will  you? 

DUTCH. 

Leaning  over  the  table  to  Ghent,  in  plaintive  remon- 
strance. 

You  don't  mean  me,  Steve! 

GHENT. 

To  the  Mexican. 

Well,  you,  then! 

The  Mexican  spreads  the  money  carelessly  with  his  left 
hand  to  ascertain  its  amount,  then  thrusts  it  away 
with  a  disgusted  grunt  of  refusal. 


32  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

DUTCH. 

Don't  blame  you,  Shorty!   A  ornery  buck  of  a 

dirt-eatin'  Mojave  'd   pay  more  'n  that   for  his 

squaw. 

Ruth  covers  her  face  shudderingly .  Ghent  stands  pon- 
dering, watching  the  two  men  under  his  brows,  and 
slowly  gathering  up  the  money.  As  if  on  a  sudden 
thought,  he  opens  his  shirt,  and  unwinds  from  his 
neck  a  string  of  gold  nuggets  in  the  rough,  strung  on 
a  leather  thread. 

GHENT. 

Well,  it  ain't  much,  that  's  sure.    But  there  's  a 

string  of  gold  nuggets  I  guess  is  worth  some 

money. 

He  throws  it  on  the  table,  speaking  to  both  men. 

Take  that,  and  clear  out. 

DUTCH. 

Draws  up  angrily. 

I  've  give  you  fair  warning ! 

GHENT. 

We  '11  keep  everything  friendly  between  me  and 
you.  A  square  stand-up  shoot,  and  the  best  man 
takes  her. 


ACT  I]  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  33 

DUTCH. 

Mollified. 

Now  you  're  comin'  to ! 

GHENT. 

To  the  Mexican. 

Then  it 's  up  to  you,  and  you  'd  better  answer 
quick ! 

THE  MEXICAN. 

Eyeing  Ghent  and  Ruth,  points  to  the  gun  lying  on  the 
floor. 

I  take  him,  too. 

GHENT. 

No,  you  don't.  You  leave  everything  here  the 
way  you  found  it. 

THE  MEXICAN. 
Alia  right. 

He  pockets  the  chain  and  starts  for  the  door. 

GHENT. 

Hold  on  a  minute.  You  've  got  to  promise  to  tie 
the  man  who  falls,  on  his  horse,  and  take  him  to 
Mesa  Grande.  Bargain? 

The  Mexican  nods. 


34  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  i 

And  mouth  shut,  mind  you,  or  — 
He  makes  a  sign  across  his  throat. 

THE  MEXICAN. 

Nods. 

Alia  right. 
He  goes  out. 

GHENT. 

Motioning  toward  the  door. 

Outside. 

DUTCH. 

Surprised. 

What  for? 

GHENT. 

Sternly. 
Outside ! 

They  move  toward  the  door.  Dutch  stops  and  waves 
his  hand  to  Ruth. 

DUTCH. 
Don't  worry,  my  girl.   Back  soon. 

GHENT. 

Threateningly. 

Cut  that  out ! 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  35 

DUTCH. 

What 's  eatin'  you?    She  ain't  yours  yet,  and  I 
guess  she  won't  be,  not  till  hell  freezes  over. 

He  taps  his  pistol  and  goes  out.  Ghent  picks  up  the 
rifle  which  has  previously  missed  fire  ;  he  unloads  it, 
throws  it  on  the  window-seat,  and  follows  Dutch. 
Ruth  stands  beside  the  table,  listening.  Four  shots 
are  heard.  After  a  short  time  Ghent  appears  and 
watches  from  the  door  the  vanishing  horses.  He 
comes  to  the  table  opposite  Ruth. 

RUTH. 

In  a  low  voice. 

Is  he  dead? 

GHENT. 
No ;  but  he  '11  stay  in  the  coop  for  a  while. 

She  sinks  down  in  a  chair.  Ghent  seats  himself  at  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  draws  a  whiskey  flask  from 
his  pocket,  and  uncorks  it  awkwardly,  using-  only 
his  right  hand. 

RUTH. 

As  he  is  about  to  drink. 

Don't! 


36  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

GHENT. 

Lowers  the  bottle  and  looks  at  her  in  a  dazed  way. 
Is  this  on  the  square? 

RUTH. 

I  gave  you  my  promise. 

Gazing  at  her,  he  lets  the  bottle  sink  slowly  by  his  side  ; 
the  liquor  runs  out,  while  he  sits  as  if  in  a  stupor. 
Ruth  glances  toward  the  door,  and  half  starts  from 
her  seat,  sinking  back  as  he  looks  up. 

GHENT. 

Give  me  a  drink  of  water. 

She  brings  the  water  from  a  bucket  in  the  corner.  He  sets 
the  empty  bottle  on  the  table,  drinks  deeply  of  the 
water,  takes  a  handkerchief  from  his  neck,  wets  it, 
and  mops  his  face. 

GHENT. 
Where  are  your  folks? 

RUTH. 
My  brother  has  gone  out  to  the  railroad. 

GHENT. 
Him  and  you  ranching  it  here  by  yourselves? 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  37 

RUTH. 
Yes. 

GHENT. 
Write  him  a  note. 

He  shoves  paper,  pen,  and  ink  before  her. 

Fix  it  up  anyway  you  like. 

RUTH. 
Tell  me  first  what  you  mean  to  do  with  me. 

GHENT. 

Ponders  awhile  in  silence. 
Have  you  got  a  horse  to  ride? 

RUTH. 
Yes. 

GHENT. 

We  can  reach  San  Jacinto  before  sun-up.  Then 
we  're  off  for  the  Cordilleras.  I  've  got  a  claim 
tucked  away  in  them  hills  that  '11  buy  you  the 
city  of  Frisco  some  day,  if  you  have  a  mind  to  it ! 

She  shrinks  and  shudders. 


38  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE          [ACT  I 

What  you  shivering  at? 

Ruth  does  not  answer,  but  begins  to  write.  Ghent,  still 
using  only  one  hand,  takes  a  pistol  from  his  pocket, 
examines  it,  and  lays  it  carelessly  on  the  table,  within 
Ruttis  reach.  He  rises  and  goes  to  the  fireplace,  takes 
a  cigarette  from  his  pocket  and  lights  it,  and  ex- 
amines the  objects  on  the  mantel-shelf.  Ruth  stops 
writing,  takes  up  the  pistol,  then  lays  it  down,  as  he 
speaks  without  turning  round. 

Read  what  you  've  written. 

Ruth,  about  to  read,  snatches  up  the  pistol  again,  rises, 
and  stands  trembling  and  irresolute. 

Why  don't  you  shoot? 
He  turns  round  deliberately. 

You  promised  on  the  square,  but  there  's  nothing 
square  about  this  deal.  You  ought  to  shoot  me 
like  a  rattlesnake ! 

RUTH. 
I  know  that. 

GHENT. 
Then  why  don't  you? 

RUTH. 

Slowly. 

I  don't  know. 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  39 

GHENT. 

I  guess  you  've  got  nerve  enough,  for  that  or  any- 
thing. —  Answer  me ;  why  not? 

RUTH. 

I  don 't  —  know.  —  You  laid  it  there  for  me.  — 
And  —  you  have  no  right  to  die. 

GHENT. 
How 's  that? 

RUTH. 

You  must  live  —  to  pay  for  having  spoiled  your 
life. 

GHENT. 
Do  you  think  it  is  spoiled? 

RUTH. 
Yes. 

GHENT. 
And  how  about  your  life? 

RUTH. 
I  tried  to  do  it. 


40  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE          [ACT  i 

GHENT. 
To  do  what? 

RUTH. 

To  take  my  life.  I  ought  to  die.  I  have  a  right  to 
die.  But  I  cannot,  I  cannot!  I  love  my  life,  I 
must  live.  In  torment,  in  darkness  —  it  does  n't 
matter.  I  want  my  life.  I  will  have  it ! 

She  drops  the  weapon  on  the  table,  pushes  it  toward 
him,  and  covers  her  eyes. 

Take  it  away !  Don't  let  me  see  it.  If  you  want 
me  on  these  terms,  take  me,  and  may  God  for- 
give you  for  it;  but  if  there  is  a  soul  in  you  to  be 
judged,  don't  let  me  do  myself  violence. 

She  sinks  down  by  the  table,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

O,  God  have  pity  on  me ! 

Ghent  puts  the  pistol  back  into  his  belt,  goes  slowly 
to  the  outer  door,  opens  it,  and  stands  for  some  mo- 
ments gazing  out.  He  then  closes  the  door,  and  takes 
a  step  or  two  toward  the  table.  As  he  speaks,  Ruths 
sobs  cease,  she  raises  her  head  and  looks  strangely 
at  him. 

GHENT. 

I've  lived  hard  and  careless,  and  lately  I've  been 
going  down  hill  pretty  fast.  But  I  have  n't  got 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  41 

so  low  yet  but  what  I  can  tell  one  woman  from 
another.  If  that  was  all  of  it,  I'd  be  miles  away 
from  here  by  now,  riding  like  hell  for  liquor  to 
wash  the  taste  of  shame  out  of  my  mouth.  But 
that  ain't  all.  I've  seen  what  I've  been  looking 
the  world  over  for,  and  never  knew  it.  —  Say  your 
promise  holds,  and  I  '11  go  away  now. 

RUTH. 

O,  yes,  go,  go !  You  will  be  merciful.  You  will 
not  hold  me  to  my  cruel  oath. 

GHENT. 

And  when  I  come  back? 

Ruth  does  not  answer.    He  takes  a  step  nearer. 

And  when  I  come  back? 

RUTH. 
You  never  —  could  —  come  back. 

GHENT. 
No,  I  guess  I  never  could. 

RUTH. 

Eager,  pleading. 

You  will  go? 


42  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  i 

GHENT. 
For  good? 

RUTH. 
Yes. 

GHENT. 
Do  you  mean  that? 

RUTH. 

Wildly. 

Yes,  yes,  ten  thousand  times! 

GHENT. 
Is  that  your  last  word? 

RUTH. 
Yes. 

Pause.    She  watches  him  with  strained  anxiety, 
O,  why  did  you  come  here  to-night? 

GHENT. 

I  come  because  I  was  blind-drunk  and  sun- 
crazy,  and  looking  for  damnation  the  nearest  way. 
That 's  why  I  come.  But  that 's  not  why  I  'm 
staying.  I  'm  talking  to  you  in  my  right  mind  now. 
I  want  you  to  try  and  see  this  thing  the  way  it  is. 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  43 

RUTH. 

O,  that  is  what  I  want  you  to  do !  You  did  yourself 
and  me  a  hideous  wrong  by  coming  here.  Don't 
do  us  both  a  more  hideous  wrong  still !  I  was  in 
panic  fear.  I  snatched  at  the  first  thing  I  could. 
Think  what  our  life  would  be,  beginning  as  we 
have  begun!  O,  for  God's  pity  go  away  now, 
and  never  come  back !  Don't  you  see  there  can 
never  be  anything  between  us  but  hatred,  and 
misery,  and  horror? 

GHENT. 
Hardening. 

We  '11  see  about  that !  — Are  you  ready  to  start? 

Ruth,  conscious  for  the  first  time  of  her  undress  con- 
Idition,  shrinks,  and  folds  her  gown  closer  about  her 
neck. 

Go,  and  be  quick  about  it. 

She  starts  toward  her  room  ;  he  detains  her. 

Where's  your  saddle? 

She  points  at  it  and  goes  out.  Ghent  picks  up  the  note 
she  has  written,  reads  it,  and  stands  fora  moment  in 
reflection  before  laying  it  down.  He  gets  more  water 
from  the  bucket,  drinks  deeply,  mops  his  face,  and  rolls 


44  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  I 

up  the  sleeve  of  his  left  arm,  which  is  soaked  with 
blood.  He  tries  awkwardly  to  stanch  a  wound  in  his 
forearm,  gives  it  up  in  disgust,  and  rolls  down  his 
sleeve  again.  He  reads  the  note  once  more,  then 
takes  Ruth's  saddle  and  bridle  from  the  wall  and 
goes  out.  Ruth  comes  in  ;  her  face  is  white  and  hag- 
gard, but  her  manner  determined  and  collected.  She 
comes  to  the  table,  and  sees  the  bloody  handkerchief 
and  basin  of  water.  As  Ghent  enters,  she  turns  to 
him  anxiously. 

RUTH. 
You  are  hurt. 

GHENT. 
It 's  no  matter. 

RUTH. 
Where? 

He  indicates  his  left  arm.  She  throws  off  her  hooded 
riding-cloak,  and  impulsively  gathers  together  water, 
towels,  liniment,  and  bandages  ;  she  approaches  him, 
quite  lost  in  her  task,  flushed  and  eager. 

Sit  down.  —  Roll  up  your  sleeve. 

He  obeys  mechanically.  She  rapidly  and  deftly  washes 
and  binds  the  wound,  speaking  half  to  herself,  be- 
tween long  pauses. 

Can   you   lift   your   arm?  —  The   bone   is   not 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  45 

touched.  —  It  will  be  all  right  in  a  few  days. — 
This  balsam  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  heal. 

GHENT. 

Watching  her  dreamily,  as  she  works. 
What 's  your  name? 

RUTH. 
Ruth  — Ruth — Jordan. 

Long  pause. 

There,  gently.  —  It  must  be  very  painful. 

He  shakes  his  head  slowly,  with  half-humorous  protest. 

GHENT. 
It 's  not  fair ! 

RUTH. 
What  is  n't  fair? 

GHENT. 

To  treat  me  like  this.   It 's  not  in  the  rules  of  the 
game. 

RUTH. 

As  the  sense  of  the  situation  again  sweeps  over  her. 

Binding  your  wound?   I  would  do  the  same  ser- 
vice for  a  dog. 


46  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  i 

GHENT. 

Yes,  I  dare  say.  But  the  point  is,  I  ain't  a  dog ; 
I'm  a  human  —  the  worst  way ! 

She  rises  and  puts  away  the  liniment  and  bandages. 
He  starts  up,  with  an  impulsive  gesture. 

Make  this  bad  business  over  into  something 
good  for  both  of  us!  You'll  never  regret  it!  I'm 
a  strong  man ! 

He  holds  out  his  right  arm,  rigid. 

I  used  to  feel  sometimes,  before  I  went  to  the 
bad,  that  I  could  take  the  world  like  that  and 
tilt  her  over.  And  I  can  do  it,  too,  if  you  say 
the  word !  I'll  put  you  where  you  can  look  down 
on  the  proudest.  I'll  give  you  the  kingdoms  of 
the  world  and  all  the  glory  of  'em. 

She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.    He  comes  nearer. 

Give  me  a  chance,  and  I  '11  make  good.  By  God, 
girl,  I'll  make  good !  —  I  '11  make  a  queen  of  you. 
I'll  put  the  world  under  your  feet! 

Ruth  makes  a  passionate  gesture,  as  if  to  stop  her 
'  ears. 

What  makes  you  put  your  hands  over  your  ears 
like  that?  Don't  you  like  what  I  'm  saying  to  you? 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  47 

RUTH. 

Taking  the  words  with  difficulty. 

Do  you  remember  what  that  man  said  just  now? 

GHENT. 
What  about? 

RUTH. 
About  the  Indian  —  and  —  his  squaw. 

GHENT. 

Yes.    There  was  something  in  it,  too.    I  was  a 
fool  to  offer  him  that  mean  little  wad. 

RUTH. 
For  —  me ! 

GHENT. 
Well,  yes,  for  you,  if  you  want  to  put  it  that  way. 

RUTH. 

But  —  a  chain  of  nuggets  —  that  comes  nearer 
being  a  fair  price? 

GHENT. 
O,  to  buy  off  a  greaser ! 


48  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  i 

RUTH. 

But  to  buy  the  soul  of  a  woman  —  one  must  go 
higher.  A  mining-claim !  The  kingdoms  of  the 
world  and  all  the  glory  of  them ! 

Breaking  down  in  sudden  sobs. 

O,  be  careful  how  you  treat  me!  Be  careful!  I 
say  it  as  much  for  your  sake  as  mine.  Be  careful ! 

GHENT. 

Turns  from  her,  his  bewilderment  and  discomfiture 
translating  itself  into  gruffness. 

Well,  I  guess  we  '11  blunder  through.  —  Come 
along !  We  've  no  time  to  lose.  —  Where  are  your 
things? 

At  her  gesture,  he  picks  up  the  saddle-pack  which  she 
has  brought  out  of  the  bedroom  with  her,  and  starts 
toward  the  door. 

RUTH. 

Taking  a  hammer  from  the  window-ledge  and  handing 
it  to  Ghent. 

Fix  the  bolt.    My  brother  must  not  know. 

He  drives  in  the  staple  of  the  bolt,  while  she  throws 
the  blood-stained  water  and  handkerchief  into  the 


ACT  I]          THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  49 

fire.  He  aids  her  in  replacing  the  weapons  on  the 
walls,  then  takes  the  saddle-pack  and  stands  at  the 
door,  waiting.  She  picks  up  her  mother  s  picture, 
and  thrusts  it  in  her  bosom.  After  standing  a  mo- 
ment in  hesitation,  she  takes  the  picture  out,  kisses 
it,  lays  it  on  the  mamel,  jace  down.  She  extinguishes 
the  lamp,  and  goes  out  hastily.  He  follows,  closing 
the  door. 


THE  CURTAIN   FALLS   IN   DARKNESS 


ACT  II 


ACT  II 

Stephen  Ghent's  home,  in  the  Cordilleras.  At  the  right, 
crowning  a  rude  terrace,  is  an  adobe  cabin,  stained 
a  pale  buff,  mellowed  to  ivory  by  sun  and  dust. 
Over  it  clamber  vines  loaded  with  purple  bloom.  The 
front  of  the  cabin  is  turned  at  an  angle  toward 
the  spectator,  the  farther  side  running  parallel  with 
the  brink  of  a  canon,  of  which  the  distant  wall  and 
upper  reaches  are  crimsoned  by  the  afternoon  light. 
In  the  level  space  before  the  rocky  terrace  is  a  stone 
table  and  seats,  made  of  natural  rocks  roughly  worked 
with  the  chisel.  The  rude  materials  have  manifestly 
been  touched  by  a  refined  and  artistic  hand,  bent  on 
making  the  most  of  the  glorious  natural  background. 
Against  the  rocks  on  the  left  stands  a  large  hand-loom 
of  the  Navajo  type,  with  weaving-stool,  and  a  blanket 
half  woven.  On  the  table  lies  a  half -finished  Indian 
basket,  and  strips  of  colored  weaving-materials  lie  in 
a  heap  on  the  ground.  Cactus  plants  in  blossom  fill 
the  niches  of  the  rocks  and  lift  their  fantastic  forms 
above  the  stones  which  wall  the  canon  brink.  At  one 
point  this  wall  is  broken,  where  a  path  descends  into 
the  canon. 

Lon  Anderson,  a  venerable-looking  miner,  with  gray 
hair  and  beard,  sits  smoking  before  the  cabin.  Burt 
Williams,  a  younger  man,  peeps  up  over  the  edge  of 
the  canon,  from  the  path. 


54  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

BURT. 

Hello,  Lon.   Is  the  Missus  inside? 

Lon  smokes  on,  without  looking  at  the  questioner. 

Look  here,  I  put  a  nickel  in  you,  you  blame 
rusty  old  slot-machine.  Push  out  something ! 

LON. 

Removes  his  pipe  deliberately. 

What  you  wan  tin'  off  'n  her  now?  A  music  lesson 
or  a  headache  powder? 

BURT. 

Boss  's  waitin'  down  at  the  mine,  with  a  couple 
o'  human  wonders  he  's  brought  back  with  him 
from  wherever  he  's  been  this  time.  Something 
doin'  on  the  quiet. 

LON. 
You  can  tell  him  his  wife  ain't  nowheres  about. 

Burt  produces  an  enormous  bandana  from  his  pocket ', 
mounts  the  wall,  and  waves  it.  He  sits  on  the  wall 
and  smokes  for  a  moment  in  silence,  looking  down 
into  the  canon,  as  if  watching  the  approaching  party. 
He  points  with  his  pipe  at  the  cabin. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  55 

BURT. 

Funny  hitch-up  —  this  here  one  —  I  think. 

LON. 

After  a  pause.  V 

How  much  you  gittin'  a  day  now? 

BURT. 
Same  little  smilin'  helpless  three  and  six-bits. 

LON. 
Anything  extry  for  thinkin'? 

BURT. 
Nope !  Thro  wed  in. 

They  smoke  again.  Burt  glances  down  to  reassure  him- 
self, then  points  at  the  loom  and  basket. 

Queer  business  —  this  rug-weavin'  and  basket- 
makin',  ain't  it?  —  What  d'  ye  s'pose  she  wants 
to  sit,  day  in  and  day  out,  like  a  half-starved 
Navajo,  slavin'  over  them  fool  things  fur?  — 
Boss  ain't  near,  is  he?  Don't  keep  her  short  of 
ice-cream  sodas  and  trolley- rides,  does  'e? 

Lon  rises  and  approaches  Burt,  regarding  him  grimly. 


56  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

Saw  'er  totin'  a  lot  o'  that  stuff  burro-back  over 
to  the  hotel  week  'fore  last.  —  An'  Dod  Ranger 

—  you  know  what  a  disgustin'  liar  Dod  is  —  he 
tells  how  he  was  makin'  tests  over  in  the  cross- 
canon,  an'  all  of  a  sudden  plump  he  comes  on 
her  talkin'  to  a  sawed-off  Mexican  hobo,  and 
when  she  sees  Dod,  she  turns  white  's  a  sheet. 

LON. 

With  suppressed  ferocity. 

You  tell  Dod  Ranger  to  keep  his  mouth  shet, 
and  you  keep  yourn  shet  too  —  or  by  Jee — 
hosophat,  I  '11  make  the  two  of  ye  eat  yer  Adam's- 
apples  and  swaller  the  core ! 

BURT. 

O,  git  down  off  'n  yer  hind  legs,  Lon !  Nobody  's 
intendin'  any  disrespect. 

\ 
LON. 

You  boys  keep  yer  blatherin'  tongues  off  'n  her ! 
Or  you  '11  get  mixed  up  with  Alonzo  P.  Anderson 

—  (he  taps  his  breast)  — so  's  it  '11  take  a  coroner 
to  untangle  ye ! 


ACT  ii]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  57 

BURT. 

Deprecatingly . 

I  guess  I  'd  stick  up  fur  'er  's  quick  as  you  would, 
come  to  that. 

LON. 

Well,  we  don't  need  no  stickin'  up  fur  'er.   What 
we  need  is  less  tongue. 

He  leans  down  and  speaks  lower. 

Especially  when  the  boss  is  round.    You  tell  the 
boys  so. 

Burt  looks  at  him  in  surprise  and  is  about  to  speak  ; 
Lon  makes  a  warning  signal,  indicating  the  approach 
of  the  party  below.  Burt  descends,  saluting  Ghent 
respectfully. 

GHENT. 

Peeping  up  over  the  edge  of  the  canon. 

Coast  clear,  eh,  Lon? 

LON. 
Yes,  sir. 

GHENT. 
Where  is  she? 


58  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

LON. 

Points  along  the  brink  of  the  canon. 

Kind  o'  think  she  went  out  to  Look-off  Ledge.  — 

Guess  she  did  n't  expect  you  back  to-day. 

GHENT. 

Speaking  below. 

Come  up,  gentlemen. 

Ghent  emerges  from  the  canon,  followed  by  an  archi- 
tect, a  dapper  young  Easterner,  and  a  contractor,  a 
bluff  Western  type.  Ghent  is  neatly  dressed  in  khaki, 
with  riding-boots  and  broad  felt  hat.  He  has  a  pros- 
perous and  busy  air,  and  is  manifestly  absorbed  in 
the  national  game  of  making  money. 

Take  a  seat. 

CONTRACTOR. 

Seats  himself  by  the  table. 

Don't  care  if  I  do.  That  new  stage  of  yours  just 
jumped  stiff-legged  from  the  go-off.  And  the  trail 
up  here  from  the  mine  is  a  good  deal  of  a  propo- 
sition for  the  see-dentary. 

ARCHITECT. 

As  he  takes  in  the  stupendous  view. 
What  a  wonderful  place !    Even  better  than  you 
described  it. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  59 

GHENT. 

Yes.  My  wife  picked  it  out.  —  Let 's  see  your 
plans. 

He  removes  basket  from  the  table,  where  the  architect 
unrolls  several  sheets  of  blue  paper. 

ARCHITECT. 

I  have  followed  your  instructions  to  the  letter. 
I  understand  that  nothing  is  to  be  touched  ex- 
cept the  house. 

GHENT. 

Not  a  stone,  sir ;  not  a  head  of  cactus.  Even  the 
vines  you  've  got  to  keep,  exactly  as  they  are. 

ARCHITECT. 

Smiling. 

That  will  be  a  little  difficult. 

GHENT. 

You  can  put  'em  on  a  temporary  trellis.  —  A  little 
pains  will  do  it. 

CONTRACTOR. 

Maybe,  with  a  man  to  shoo  the  masons  off  with 
a  shot-gun. 


60  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

GHENT. 

Over  the  plans. 

Provide  a  dozen  men,  if  necessary,  with  machine 
guns. 

CONTRACTOR. 

As  you  please,  Mr.  Ghent.  The  owner  of  the 
Verde  mine  has  a  right  to  his  whims,  I  reckon. 

ARCHITECT. 

I  have  designed  the  whole  house  in  the  Spanish 
style,  very  broad  and  simple.  This  open  space 
where  we  stand  —  (points  to  the  plans)  —  I  have 
treated  as  a  semi-enclosed  patio,  with  arcaded 
porches. 

GHENT. 

Dubiously. 

Good. 

ARCHITECT. 

This  large  room  fronting  the  main  arcade  is  the 
living-room. 

GHENT. 

I  guess  we  '11  have  'em  all  living-rooms.  This  place 
is  to  be  lived  in,  from  the  word  go. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  61 

ARCHITECT. 

Humoring  him. 

To  be  sure,  everything  cheerful  and  open.  —  Here 
on  the  left  of  the  inner  court  is  the  library  and 
music-room. 

GHENT. 

I'm  afraid  we  won't  have  much  use  for  that.  My 
wife  don't  go  in  much  for  frills.  I  used  to  play 
the  concertina  once,  but  it  was  a  long  while  ago. 

ARCHITECT. 

It  can  be  used  for  other  purposes.  For  instance, 
as  a  nursery,  though  I  had  put  that  on  the  other 
side. 

GHENT. 

Embarrassed  and  delighted. 
Um,  yes,  nursery.  —  Stamping-ground  for  the  — ? 

The  architect  nods ;  the  contractor  follows  suit,  with 
emphasis.  Lon  nods  solemnly  over  his  pipe. 

Good. 

The  architect  bends  over  to  make  a  note  with  his  pencil. 
Ghent  restrains  him  and  says  somewhat  sheepishly 
in  his  ear. 

You  can  leave  it  music-room  on  the  map. 


62  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

ARCHITECT. 

Continuing  his  explanation. 
This  wing  - 

Ghent,  interrupting  him,  holds  the  plan  at  arm's  length, 
with  head  on  one  side  and  eyes  squinted,  as  he  looks 
from  the  drawings  to  the  cabin  and  surroundings* 

GHENT. 

Looks  a  little  —  sprawly  on  paper.  I  had  sort  of 
imagined  something  more  —  more  up  in  the  air, 
like  them  swell  tepees  on  the  Hill  in  Frisco. 

He  makes  a  grandiose  outline  of  high  roofs  and  turrets 
in  the  air. 

ARCHITECT. 

I  think  this  is  more  harmonious  with  the  sur- 
roundings. 

CONTRACTOR. 

In  answer  to  Ghent's  inquiring  look. 

Won't  look  so  showy  from  the  new  hotel  across 

yonder. 

He  points  to  the  left,  down  the  curve  of  the  canon  wall. 

GHENT. 

What 's  your  estimate  on  this  plan,  now  you  've 
seen  the  location? 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  63 

CONTRACTOR. 

It 's  a  long  way  to  haul  the  stuff.  —  Say  some- 
wheres  between  twenty  and  twenty-five  thou- 
sand. Twenty- five  will  be  safe. 

GHENT. 

Slightly  staggered. 

That  s  a  big  lot  of  money,  my  friend ! 

CONTRACTOR. 

With  cold  scorn. 

I  thought  we  was  talkin'  about  a  house!  I  can 
build  you  a  good  sheep-corral  for  a  right  smart 
less. 

GHENT. 

Well,  I  guess  we  don't  want  any  sheep-corrals. 

CONTRACTOR. 

I  should  think  not,  with  the  Verde  pumping 
money  at  you  the  way  they  tell  she  does. 

GHENT. 

Holds  up  the  plans  again  and  looks  at  them  in  per- 
plexed silence. 

I  '11  tell  you,  gentlemen,  I  'li  have  to  consult  my 


64  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

wife  about  this  before  I  decide.  The  fact  is,  I  've 
been  working  the  thing  out  on  the  sly,  up  to  now. 

CONTRACTOR. 

Expect  to  build  it  of  an  afternoon,  while  the  lady 
was  takin'  her  see-ester? 

GHENT. 

I  thought  I  'd  smuggle  her  off  somewhere  for  a 

while. 

He  is  silent  a  moment,  pondering. 

No !  It 's  her  house,  and  she  must  O.  K.  the  plans 
before  ground  is  broke. 
He  looks  along  the  canon  rim. 

Would  you  mind  waiting  a  few  minutes  till  I  see 
if  I  can  find  her? 

He  starts  irresolutely,  then  turns  back. 

Or  better  still,  leave  the  plans,  and  I  '11  see  you  at 
the  hotel  to-morrow  morning.  I  have  n't  been 
over  there  since  it  was  opened.  I  'd  like  to  know 
what  they  're  making  of  it. 

CONTRACTOR. 

Astonished. 

Hain't  been  over  to  the  Buny  Visty  yet  ? 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  65 

GHENT. 
Too  busy. 

CONTRACTOR. 

Well,  you  '11  find  it  an  up-to-date  joint,  and  chock 
full  of  tourist  swells  and  lungers. 

GHENT. 

Good-afternoon,  gentlemen.    You  '11  excuse  me. 
You  can  find  your  way  back  all  right?    Take  the 
left-hand  path.    It 's  better  going. 
The  architect  bows  ceremoniously,  the  contractor  nods. 

Ghent  disappears  along  the  canon  brink  behind  the 

cabin. 

ARCHITECT. 

Has  been  examining  the  work  on  the  loom,  and  has 
then  picked  up  the  unfinished  basket,  admiringly. 

What  a  beautiful  pattern !  I  say,  this  is  like  those 
we  saw  at  the  hotel.  (To  Lon.)  May  I  ask  who  is 
making  this? 

Lon  smokes  in  silence  ;  the  architect  raises  his  voice, 
slightly  sharp. 

May  I  ask  who  is  making  this? 

LON. 

Benignly. 

You  kin,  my  friend,  you  kin! 


66  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  II 

ARCHITECT. 
Well,  then,  the  question  is  put. 

LON. 

And  very  clear-put,  too.    You  'd  ought  to  be  in 
the  law  business,  young  man. 

He  gets  up  deliberately. 

Or  some  other  business  that  'd  take  up  all  yer 
time. 

ARCHITECT. 

Between  wrath  and  amusement. 

Well,  I  '11  be  hanged! 

He  follows  his  companion  down  the  canon  path,  stop- 
ping a  moment  'at  the  brink  to  look  round  with  a  pro- 
fessional air  at  the  house  and  surroundings,  then  at 
Lon. 

Tart  old  party ! 

He  descends.  Lon  crosses   to  the  table,  looks  over  the 
plans,    makes  outlines    in   the  air  in  imitation  of 
Ghent,  then  shakes  his  head  dubiously,  as  he  rolls  up 
theplans. 

Ruth  appears,  emerging  from  the  canon  path.  She  wears 
the  same  dress  as  at  the  close  of  Act  I,  with  a 
dark  scarf-like  handkerchief  thrown  over  her  head. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  67 

She  is  pale  and  exhausted.  She  sinks  on  the  rocks 
at  the  edge  of  the  canon. 

LON. 

to 

Approaching  her,  anxiously. 

It 's  too  much  fer  you,  ma'am.  You  'd  oughter 
let  me  go. 

He  brings  her  a  glass  of  water  from  an  Indian  water- 
jar  before  the  cabin. 

RUTH. 

Tasting  the  water. 

O,  I  thought  I  should  never  get  back ! 

She  leans  against  a  rock,  with  closed  eyes,  then  rouses 
herself  again. 

Lon,  take  the  glass,  and  see  if  you  can  make  out 
any  one  down  yonder,  on  the  nearer  trail.  I  —  I 
thought  some  one  was  following  me. 

LON. 

Speaks  low. 

Excuse  me  askin',  Mis'  Ghent,  but  is  that  dod- 
blamed  Mexican  a-botherin'  you  again? 

RUTH. 
No.   He  has  gone  away,  for  good.   It 's  some  one  I 


68  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

saw  at  the  hotel  —  some  one  I  used  to  know.  — 
Look  if  you  can  make  out  a  man's  figure,  coming 
up. 

LON. 

Takes  the  glass  from  the  niche  in  the  rocks,  and  scans 
the  canon  path. 

Can't  see  nothin'  but  a  stray  burro,  an*  he  ain't 
got  no  figger  to  speak  of.  —  Might  be  t'other 
side  o'  Table  Rock,  down  in  the  pinyon  scrub. 

Ruth  gets  up  with  an  effort,  takes  the  glass  and  looks 
through  it,  then  lays  it  on  the  ledge. 

Excuse  me,  ma'am,  but  —  Mister  Ghent  come 
home  this  afternoon. 

RUTH. 

Startled. 

Where  is  he? 

LON. 

Huntin'  for  you  down  Look-off  Ledge  way.  I 
'lowed  you  was  there,  not  knowin'  what  else  to 
say. 

RUTH. 

Thank  you,  Lon.  —  You  can  go  now. 

He  goes  down  the  canon  path.  Rtith  looks  once  more 
through  the  glass,  then  crosses  to  the  table,  where  she 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  69 

sits  down  and  begins  to  finger  the  roll  of  plans. 
Ghent  reenters.  He  approaches  with  soft  tread  and 
bends  over  Ruth.  She  starts  up  with  a  little  cry, 
avoiding  his  embrace. 

You  frightened  me. — When  did  you  comeback? 

GHENT. 
An  hour  ago. 

RUTH. 
Was  your  journey  successful? 

GHENT. 

Yes.    But  my  home-coming  —  that  looks  rather 

like  a  failure. 

Pause. 

I  expected  to  find  you  out  on  the  bluff. 

RUTH. 
Lon  was  mistaken.    I  had  gone  the  other  way. 

As  she  stands  at  the  table,  she  begins  to  unroll  the  plans. 
What  are  these  papers? 

GHENT. 

Have  n't  you  one  word  of  welcome  for  me,  after 
five  days? 

Ruth  remains  silent,  with  averted  head,  absently  un- 
rolling the  packet. 


yo  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

Not  a  look  even? 

He  waits  a  moment,  then  sighs  and  seats  himself 
moodily  by  the  table. 

I  never  can  remember !  After  I  've  been  away 
from  you  for  twelve  hours,  I  forget  completely. 

RUTH. 
Forget  what? 

GHENT. 

How  it  stands  between  us.  It 's  childish,  but  for 
the  life  of  me  I  can't  help  it.  —  After  I  've  been 
away  a  few  hours,  this  place  gets  all  lit  up  with 
bright  colors  in  my  mind,  like  —  (searching  for  a 
simile) — well,  like  a  Christmas  tree!  I  daresay 
a  Christmas  tree  don't  amount  to  much  in  real 
life,  but  I  saw  one  once,  in  a  play,  —  I  was  a  little 
mining-camp  roust-about,  so  high,  —  and  ever 
since  it  has  sort  of  stood  to  me  for  the  gates  o' 
glory. 

RUTH. 

With  a  hysterical  laugh. 
A  Christmas  tree! 

She  bows  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  repeats  the  words, 
as  if  to  herself,  in  a  tone  in  which  bitterness  has 
given  place  to  tragic  melancholy. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  71 

A  Christmas  tree ! 

Ghent,  watching  her  moodily,  cmmples  tip  the  plans 
and  throws  them  upon  the  ground.  He  goes  toward 
the  cabin,  hesitates,  turns,  and  comes  back  to  the  table, 
where  Ruth  still  sits  with  buried  head.  He  draws 
from  his  pocket  a  jewel-case,  which  he  opens  and  lays 
before  her. 

GHENT. 

There  is  a  little  present  I  brought  home  for  you. 
And  here  are  some  more  trinkets. 
He  takes  out  several  pieces  of  jewelry  and  tumbles  them 
together  on  the  table. 

I  know  you  don't  care  much  for  these  things,  but 
I  had  to  buy  something,  the  way  I  was  feeling. 
And  these  papers  —  (picks  them  up  and  spreads 
them  out  on  the  table) — these  mean  that  you 're 
not  to  live  much  longer  in  a  mud  shanty,  with 
pine  boxes  for  furniture.  These  are  the  drawings 
for  a  new  house  that  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you. 

He  points  at  the  map  and  speaks  glibly,  trying  to  master 
his  discomfiture  at  her  lack  of  interest. 

Spanish  style,  everything  broad  and  simple! 
Large  living-room  opening  on  inner  court.  Li- 
brary and  music- room,  bless  your  heart.  Bed- 
rooms; kitchen  and  thereunto  pertaining.  Wing 


72  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  n 

where  the  proprietor  retires  to  express  his  inmost 
feelings.  General  effect  sprawly,  but  harmonious 
with  the  surroundings.  Twenty  thousand  esti- 
mated, twenty-five  limit.  Is  she  ours? 

RUTH. 

In  a  dead,  flat  tone. 

How  much  did  you  say  the  house  is  to  cost? 

GHENT. 
Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  at  the  outside. 

^     RUTH. 
And  these  —  trinkets? 

GHENT. 
O,  I  don't  know.  —  A  few  hundred. 

RUTH. 

Draws  the  plans  toward  her  and  pours  the  jewels  in  a 
heap  upon  them  from  her  lifted  hands. 

Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  and  the  odd  hun- 
dreds! 

She  laughs  suddenly  and  jarringly. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  73 

My  price  has  risen!    My  price  has  risen! 

She  laughs  again,  as  she  rises  from  the  table  and  looks 
down  the  canon  path. 

Keep  those  displayed  to  show  to  our  visitors !   My 
honor  is  at  stake. 

She  points  down  the  path. 
There  is  one  coming  now ! 

GHENT. 
Visitors?  What  visitors? 

RUTH. 

Only  an  old  school-friend  of  mine;  a  Mr.  Win- 
throp  Newbury. 

GHENT. 
What  are  you  talking  about?  Are  you  crazy? 

He  joins  her,  where  she  stands  looking  down  into  the 
canon. 

This  fellow,  is  he  really  what  you  say? 

Ruth  nods,  with  unnaturally  bright  eyes  and  mocking 
smile. 

What  does  this  mean? 


74  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

RUTH. 

It  means  that  he  caught  sight  of  me,  an  hour  ago, 
in  the  hotel. 

GHENT. 
In  the  hotel?   What  were  you  doing  there? 

RUTH. 

With  biting  calm. 

Nothing  wicked  —  as  yet.  They  don't  pay  twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars  over  there  —  at  least  not 
yet! 

Ghent  turns  sharply,  as  if  stung-  by  a  physical  blow. 
She  raises  her  hands  to  him,  in  a  swift  revulsion 
of  feeling. 

O,  don't  judge  me !  Don't  listen  to  me !  I  am  not 
in  my  right  mind. 

GHENT. 

Sweeps  the  jewels  together,  and  throws  them  over  the 
cliff. 

Do  you  want  me  to  be  here,  while  you  see  him? 
She  does  not  answer. 
Won't  you  answer  me? 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  75 

RUTH. 

Again  cold. 

Act  as  you  think  best. 

GHENT. 
It 's  a  question  of  what  will  be  easiest  for  you. 

RUTH. 
O,  it's  all  easy  for  me! 

Ghent  stands  irresolute,  then  raises  his  hand  in  a  ges- 
ture of  perplexity  and  despair,  and  goes  into  the 
house,  closing  the  door.  Winthrop  Newbury  appears 
at  the  top  of  the  canon  path,  looks  curiously  about, 
catches  sight  of  Ruth s  averted  figure,  and  rushes 
toward  her. 

WINTHROP. 
Ruth !   Is  it  really  you? 

Ruth  starts  involuntarily  toward  him,  stretching  out 
her  arms.  As  he  advances,  she  masters  herself,  and 
speaks  in  a  natural  voice,  with  an  attempt  at  gayety, 
as  she  takes  his  hand. 

RUTH. 

Well,  of  all  things!    Winthrop  Newbury!    How 
did  you  find  your  way  to  this  eagle's  nest? 


76  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

WlNTHROP. 

I  —  we  saw  you  —  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  you 
at  the  hotel,  but  we  were  n't  sure.  We  followed 
you,  but  lost  you  in  the  canon. 

RUTH. 
We?  Who  is  we? 

WlNTHROP. 

Your  brother  and  his  wife. 

RUTH. 

Turning  the  shock,  which  she  has  been  unable  to  conceal, 
into  conventional  surprise. 

Philip  and  Polly  here ! 

WlNTHROP. 

They  took  the  other  turn,  down  there  where  the 
path  forks.  We  did  n't  know  which  way  you 
had  gone. 

RUTH. 

Yes,  but  why  on  earth  are  they  here  at  all? 

WlNTHROP. 

They  are  on  their  way  East.  They  stopped  over 
to  see  me. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  77 

RUTH. 
To  see  you?  Are  you  —  living  here? 

WINTHROP. 

I  have  been  here  only  a  week. 
He  starts  impulsively,  trying  to  break  through  the  con- 
ventional wall  which  she  has  raised  between  them. 

Ruth  —  for  God's  sake  — ! 

RUTH. 

Interrupting  him,  with  exaggerated  animation. 

But  tell  me!    I  am  all  curiosity.    How  do  you 

happen  to  be  here  —  of  all  places? 

WINTHROP. 

What  does  it  matter?  I  am  here.  We  have  found 
you,  after  all  these  miserable  months  of  anxiety 
and  searching.  O  Ruth  —  why  — 

RUTH. 

I  have  acted  badly,  I  know.  But  I  wish  not  to 
talk  of  that.  Not  now.  I  will  explain  everything 
later.  Tell  me  about  yourself  —  about  Philip  and 
Polly  —  and  mother.  I  am  thirsty  for  news. 
What  have  you  been  doing  all  these  months,  since 
—  our  queer  parting? 


78  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

WlNTHROP. 

Solemnly. 

Looking  for  you. 
Pause. 

O  Ruth  —  how  could  you  do  it?  How  could  you 
doit? 

RUTH. 

Touches  him  on  the  arm  and  looks  at  him  with  dumb 
entreaty,  speaking  low. 

Winthrop ! 

WlNTHROP. 

In  answer  to  her  unspoken  words. 

As  you  will. 

RUTH. 

Resumes  her  hard,  bright  tone. 

You  have  n't  told  me  about  mother.  How  is  she? 

WlNTHROP. 

Well.  Or  she  will  be,  now.  Ruth,  you  ought  at 
least  to  have  written  to  her.  She  has  suffered 
cruelly. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  79 

RUTH. 

Quickly,  with  a  nervous  uplift  of  her  arms. 

Yes,  yes,  I  know  that !  —  And  you  are  —  settled 
here?  You  mean  to  remain? 

WINTHROP. 

I  am  physician  at  the  End-of- the- Rainbow  mines, 
three  miles  below.  At  least  I  —  I  am  making  a 
trial  of  it. 

Pause. 

How  pale  and  worn  you  are.  —  Don't  turn  away. 
Look  at  me. 

She  flinches,  then  summons  her  courage  and  looks  him 
steadily  in  the  face. 

You  are  —  you  are  ill  —  I  fear  you  are  desperately 
ill! 

RUTH. 

Moving  away  nervously. 

Nonsense.   I  was  never  better  in  my  life. 

She  goes  toward  the  canon  brink. 

You  have  n't  praised  our  view.  We  are  very  proud 
of  it. 


80  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  II 

WlNTHROP. 

Following  her. 

Yes,  very  fine.   Magnificent.  , 

RUTH. 

But  you  're  not  looking  at  it  at  all !  Do  you  see 
that  bit  of  smoke  far  down  yonder?  That  is  the 
stamp  mill  of  the  Rio  Verde  mine. 

WlNTHROP. 

Compelling  himself  to  follow  her  lead. 

Yes  —  the  Rio  Verde.  One  of  the  big  strikes  of 
the  region.  Dispute  about  the  ownership,  I  be- 
lieve. 

RUTH. 

None  that  I  ever  heard  of,  and  I  ought  to  know. 
For  —  (she  makes  a  sweeping  bow)  —  we  are  the  Rio 
Verde,  at  your  service. 

WlNTHROP. 

You  —  your  —  husband  is  the  owner  of  the 
Verde  mine? 

RUTH. 

No  less ! 


ACT  II]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  81 

WlNTHROP. 

Embarrassed. 

We  found  the  record  of  your  marriage  at  San 
Jacinto.  The  name  was  Ghent  —  Stephen  Ghent. 

RUTH. 

Yes.  He  will  be  so  glad  to  see  some  of  my  people. 

Winthrofis  eyes  have  fallen  on  the  basket  at  the  foot  of 
the  table.  He  picks  it  up,  examines  it  curiously,  and 
looks  meaningly  at  Ruth,  who  snatches  it  from  his 
hand  and  throws  it  over  the  cliff. 

A  toy  I  play  with !  You  know  I  always  have  to 
keep  my  hands  busy  pottering  at  some  rubbishy 
craft  or  other. 

WlNTHROP. 

Is  about  to  speak,  but  checks  himself.  He  points  at  the 
loom. 

And  the  blanket,  too? 

RUTH. 

Yes,  another  fad  of  mine.  It  is  really  fascinating 
work.  The  Indian  women  who  taught  me  think 
I  am  a  wonder  of  cleverness. 


82  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  II 

WlNTHROP. 

So  do  —  the  women  —  over  there. 

He  points  across  the  canon. 

RUTH. 

Flushing. 

Ah,  yes,  you  saw  some  of  my  stuff  at  the  hotel. 
You  know  how  vain  I  am.  I  had  to  show  it. 

WlNTHROP. 

Perhaps.  But  why  should  the  wife  of  the  man 
who  owns  the  Verde  mine  sell  her  handiwork,  and 
under  such  —  such  vulgar  conditions? 

RUTH. 

Brilliantly  explanatory. 

To  see  if  it  will  sell,  of  course !  That  is  the  test  of 
its  merit. 

He  looks  at  her  in  mute  protest,  then  with  a  shake  of 
the  head,  rises  and  puts  on  his  hat. 

WlNTHROP. 

Do  you  want  to  see  the  others? 


ACT  II]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  83 

RUTH. 
Why,  yes,  to  be  sure  I  do.   How  should  I  not? 

WINTHROP. 

You  have  n't  seemed  very  anxious  —  these  last 

eight  months. 

RUTH. 

True.  I  have  been  at  fault.  I  so  dread  explana- 
tions. And  Phil's  tempests  of  rage !  Poor  boy,  he 
must  feel  sadly  ill-used. 

WINTHROP. 
He  does. 

Hesitates. 

If  there  is  any  reason  why  you  would  rather  he 
did  n't  see  you,  just  now,  — 

RUTH. 
There  is  no  reason.  At  least,  none  valid. 

WINTHROP. 
Then  I  will  bring  them  up. 

RUTH. 
By  all  means. 

She  holds  out  her  hand,  smiling. 


84  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

A  uf  wiedersehen ! 

Winthrop  releases  her  hand  and  goes  toward  the  canon 
path.  He  waves,  and  turns  to  Ruth. 

WINTHROP. 
They  are  just  below. 

As  Ruth  advances  he  takes  her  hand  and  looks  search- 
ingly  into  her  eyes. 

For  old  friendship's  sake,  won't  you  give  me  one 
human  word  before  they  come?  At  least  answer 
me  honestly  one  human  question? 

RUTH. 

Keeping  up  her  hard,  bright  gayety. 

In  the  great  lottery  of  a  woman's  answers  there  is 
always  one  such  prize ! 

WINTHROP. 

Dejectedly,  as  he  drops  her  hand. 
It 's  no  use,  if  that  is  your  mood. 

RUTH. 

My  mood!  Your  old  bugbear!  I  am  as  sober- 
serious  as  my  stars  ever  let  me  be. 


ACT  II]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  85 

WlNTHROP. 

Did  you,  that  night  you  bade  me  good-bye,  know 
that  —  this  was  going  to  happen? 

RUTH. 

Cordially  explanatory. 

No.  It  was  half  accident,  half  wild  impulse. 
Phil  left  me  at  the  ranch  alone.  My  lover  came, 
impatient,  importunate,  and  I  —  went  with  him. 

WlNTHROP. 

And  your  —  this  man  —  to  whom  you  are  married 
—  pardon  me,  you  don't  need  to  answer  unless 
you  wish  —  for  how  long  had  you  known  him? 

RUTH. 

Solemnly ',  as  she  looks  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 
All  my  life !  And  for  aeons  before. 

He  looks  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  goes  toward  the 
canon  path.  Polly  s  voice  is  heard  calling. 

POLLY. 

Not  yet  visible. 

Win!  Win! 


86  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE         [ACT  II 

WlNTHROP. 
Calls  down  the  canon. 

Come  up !  Come  up ! 

Ruth  goes  past  him  down  the  canon  path.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  reappears,  with  Polly.  They  are  laughing 
and  talking  as  they  come. 

POLLY. 
Ruth! 

RUTH. 
Dear  old  Polly! 

POLLY. 

You  naughty  girl ! 

RUTH. 

If  our  sins  must  find  us  out,  you  are  the  kind  of 
Nemesis  I  choose. 

POLLY. 
My !  But  you  're  a  shady  character.    And  sly ! 

Philip  appears.  Ruth  hurries  to  embrace  him,  while 
Polly,  fanning  herself  with  her  handkerchief,  ex- 
amines the  house  and  surroundings  with  curiosity. 


ACT  II]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  87 

RUTH. 

0  Phil !  —  Dear  old  man ! 

She  covers  his  face  lightly  with  her  hands. 

No  scolding,  no  frowns.  This  is  the  finding  of  the 
prodigal,  and  she  expects  a  robe  and  a  ring. 

POLLY. 

Seating  herself  on  a  rock. 

Heavens,  what  a  climb !  —  I  'm  a  rag. 

RUTH. 

Motions  to  the  men  to  be  seated. 

The  cabin  would  n't  hold  us  all,  but  there 's  one 
good  thing  about  this  place ;  there  's  plenty  of 
outdoors. 

WlNTHROP. 

Looking  about. 

1  should  say  there  was ! 

POLLY. 

To  think  ot  our  practical  Ruth  doing  the  one 
really  theatrical  thing  known  in  the  annals  of 
Milford  Corners,  Mass. !  —  And  what  a  setting! 
My  dear,  your  stage  arrangements  are  perfect. 


88  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

RUTH. 

In  this  case  Providence  deserves  the  credit.  We 
may  have  come  here  to  have  our  pictures  taken, 
but  we  stayed  to  make  a  living. 

Philip  has  drawn  apart,  gloomy  and  threatening.  Polly 
keeps  up  her  heroic  efforts  to  give  the  situation  a 
casual  and  humorous  air. 

POLLY. 

With  jaunty  challenge. 

Well,  where  is  he? 

RUTH. 
Who? 

POLLY. 
He! 

Ruth  points  at  the  cabin,  smiling. 
Well,  produce  him ! 

RUTH. 

Following,  with  gratitude  in  her  eyes,  the  key  of  light- 
ness and  raillery  which  Polly  has  struck. 

You  insist? 

POLLY. 
Absolutely. 


ACT  II]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  89 

RUTH. 
O,  very  well ! 

She  goes  up  the  rocky  incline,  and  enters  the  cabin, 
calling:  "  Steve  !  Steve  !  "  Polly  goes  to  Philip,  and 
shakes  him. 

POLLY. 

Now  you  behave! 

Indicates  Winthrop. 

He 's  behaving. 

Ruth  reappears  in  the  doorway,  followed  by  Ghent. 

RUTH. 

With  elaborate  gayety,  as  they  descend  the  rocks. 

Well,  Stephen,  since  they  've  run  us  to  earth,  I 
suppose  we  must  put  a  good  face  on  it,  and  ac- 
knowledge them.  -  -  This  is  Polly,  of  whom  I  've 
talked  so  much.  Polly  the  irresistible.  Beware 
of  her! 

Polly  shakes  his  hand  cordially. 
And  this  is  —  my  brother  Philip. 
Ghent  extends  his  hand,   which  Philip  pointedly  ig- 
nores. Ruth  goes  on  hastily,  to  cover  the  insult. 

And  this  is  my  old  school-friend,  Winthrop  New- 

bury. 

They  shake  hands. 


90  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

WlNTHROP. 

To  Philip,  formally  explanatory. 

Mr.  Ghent  is  the  owner  of  the  famous  Verde 
mine. 

GHENT. 

Part  owner,  sir.  I  had  n't  the  capital  to  develop 
with,  so  I  had  to  dispose  of  a  half-interest. 

WlNTHROP. 

Is  n't  there  some  litigation  under  way? 

RUTH. 

Looking  at  Ghent,  surprised. 
Litigation? 

GHENT. 
Yes  —  a  whole  rigmarole. 

POLLY. 

Catching  at  a  straw  to  make  talk. 

Heaven  help  you  if  you  have  got  entangled  in  the 
law !  I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  horrible  or 
ghostly  than  a  court  of  law ;  unless  (she  glances 
at  Philip}  it  is  that  other  court  of  high  justice, 


ACT  II]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  91 

which  people  hold  in  private  to  judge  their  fel- 
lows, from  hearsay  and  half-knowledge ! 

RUTH. 

Keeping  up  the  play  desperately,  as  she  blesses  Polly 
with  a  look. 

But  there  must  be  law,  just  the  same,  and  pen- 
alties and  rewards  and  all  that.  Else  what 's  the 
use  of  being  good? 

POLLY. 
Like  you  —  for  instance ! 

RUTH. 
Well,  yes,  like  me ! 

POLLY. 

You  are  not  good,  you  are  merely  magnificent.   I 

want  to  be  magnificent!    I  want  to  live  on  the 

roof  of  the  world  and  own  a  gold  mine ! 

To  Ghent. 

Show  me  where  the  sweet  thing  is. 

GHENT. 

We  can  get  a  better  view  of  the  plant  from  the 
ledge  below.   Will  you  go  down? 
Ghent,  Polly,  and  Winthrop  go  down  the  canon  path. 
Ruth  takes  Philip  by  the  arm,  to  lead  him  after. 


92  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

PHILIP. 

No.  We  must  have  a  word  together,  before  the 
gabble  begins  again.  Winthrop  has  given  me 
your  explanation,  which  explains  nothing. 

RUTH. 

Trying  to  keep  up  the  light  tone. 

Has  n't  that  usually  been  the  verdict  on  expla- 
nations of  my  conduct? 

PHILIP. 

Don't  try  to  put  me  off!  Tell  me  in  two  words 
how  you  came  to  run  away  with  this  fellow. 

RUTH. 

Hardening. 

Remember  to  whom  you  are  speaking,  and  about 
whom. 

PHILIP. 

I  got  your  note,  with  its  curt  announcement  of 
your  resolve.  Later,  by  mere  accident,  we  found 
the  record  of  your  marriage  at  San  Jacinto  —  if 
you  call  it  a  marriage,  made  hugger-mugger  at 
midnight  by  a  tipsy  justice  of  the  peace.  I  don't 
want  to  question  its  validity.  I  only  pray  that 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  93 

no  one  will.  But  I  want  to  know  how  it  came  to 
be  made,  in  such  hurry  and  secrecy  —  how  it 
came  to  be  made  at  all,  for  that  matter.  How  did 
you  ever  come  to  disgrace  yourself  and  your 
family  by  clandestine  meetings  and  a  hedge-row 
marriage  with  a  person  of  this  class?  And  why, 
after  the  crazy  leap  was  taken,  did  you  see  fit 
to  hide  yourself  away  without  a  word  to  me  or 
your  distracted  mother?  Though  that  perhaps  is 
easier  to  understand! 

RUTH. 

The  manner  of  your  questions  absolves  me  from 
the  obligation  to  answer  them. 

PHILIP. 

I  refuse  to  be  put  off  with  any  such  patent  sub- 
terfuge. 

RUTH. 

Subterfuge  or  not,  it  will  have  to  suffice,  until 
you  remember  that  my  right  to  choose  my  course 
in  life  is  unimpeachable,  and  that  the  man  whose 
destiny  I  elect  to  share  cannot  be  insulted  in  my 
presence. 


94  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

PHILIP. 

Very  well,  I  can  wait.  The  truth  will  come  out 
some  day.  Meanwhile,  you  can  take  comfort 
from  the  fact  that  your  desertion  at  the  criti- 
cal moment  of  our  enterprise  has  spelled  ruin  for 
me. 

RUTH. 

Overwhelmed. 

Philip,  you  don't  mean  — ! 

PHILIP. 
Absolute  and  irretrievable  ruin. 

RUTH. 
Then  you  are  going  back  East  —  for  good? 

PHILIP. 
Yes. 

RUTH. 

But  —  mother's  money !   What  will  she  do? 

Philip  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

Is  everything  gone  —  everything? 

PHILIP. 
I  shall  get  something  from  the  sale.     Perhaps 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  95 

enough  to  make  a  fresh  start,  somewhere,  in  some 
small  way. 

RUTH. 

Comes  to  him,  and  lays  her  arms  on  his  shoulders. 
Phil,  I  am  sorry,  sorry ! 

He  caresses  her ;  she  bursts  into  suppressed  convul- 
sive weeping  and  clings  to  him,  hiding  her  face  in 
his  breast. 

PHILIP. 

Ruth,  you  are  not  happy!  You  have  made  a 
hideous  mistake.  Come  home  with  me. 

Ruth  shakes  her  head. 

At  least  for  a  time.  You  are  not  well.  You  look 
really  ill.  Come  home  with  us,  if  only  for  a 
month. 

RUTH. 
No,  no,  dear  Phil,  dear  brother ! 

She  draws  down  his  face  and  kisses  him  ;  then  lifts  her 
head,  with  an  attempt  at  lightness. 

There !  I  have  had  my  cry,  and  feel  better.  The 
excitement  of  seeing  you  all  again  is  a  little  too 
much  for  me. 


96  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

PHILIP. 

If  there  is  anything  that  you  want  to  tell  me 
about  all  this,  tell  me  now. 

RUTH. 

O,  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  explanations 
and  all  that !  Let  us  just  be  happy  now  in  our  re- 
union. 

PHILIP. 

There  will  not  be  plenty  of  time.  We  leave  to- 
morrow morning. 

RUTH. 

Then  you  will  take  me  on  trust  —  like  a  dear  good 
brother.  Perhaps  I  shall  never  explain !  I  like  my 
air  of  mystery. 

PHILIP. 

Remember  that  if  you  ever  have  anything  to 
complain  of  —  in  your  life  —  it  is  my  right  to 
know  it.  The  offender  shall  answer  to  me,  and 
dearly,  too. 

RUTH. 

Takes  his  head  between  her  hands,  and  shakes  it,  as 
with  recovered  gay ety. 

Of  course  they  will,  you  old  fire-eater ! 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  97 

PHILIP. 

Pointing  to  the  blanket  on  the  loom. 
Ruth,  at  least  tell  me  why  — . 

Ruth  does  not  see  his  gesture,  as  she  is  looking  at  the 
others,  who  come  up  from  below.  The  men  linger  in 
the  background^  Ghent  pointing  out  objects  in  the 
landscape. 

RUTH. 

To  Polly,  wJw  advances. 

Well,  what  do  you  think  of  us,  in  a  bird's-eye 
view  ? 

POLLY. 

In  a  bird's-eye  view  you  are  superb ! 

She  draws  Ruth  to  her,  and  speaks  in  a  lower  tone. 

And    looked   at   near,    you   are   an    enthralling 
puzzle. 

RUTH. 
Half  to  herself. 

If  you  only  knew  how  much ! 

POLLY. 

Taking  Ruth  by  the  chin  as  in  Act  I. 

So  you  had  —  just  by  chance  —  riding   over  to 


98  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

the  trading-station  or  so  —  met  the  glorious' 
unfulfilled  —  in  blue  overalls  and  a  jumper !  I 
thought  so ! 

Ruth  bows  her  head  in  a  spasm  of  pain.  Polly,  who 
does  not  see  her  face,  goes  on  teasingly. 

I  see  now  what  you  meant  about  wanting  one 
that  was  n't  finished.  This  one  certainly  is  n't 
finished.  But  when  he  is,  he  '11  be  grand ! 

Ruth  moves  away  with  averted  head.    Polly  follows 
her,  peeping  round  to  view  her  face. 

Don't  sulk!    I  meant  nothing  disrespectful.    On 
the  contrary,  I  'm  crazy  about  him. 
In  a  louder  tone. 

And  now  that  I  've  seen  the  outside  of  you,  I  must 
peep  into  that  fascinating  little  house ! 

RUTH. 
To  Ghent,  who  has  drawn  nearer. 

Polly  wants  to  go  inside  the  cabin.  I  can't  let 
her  until  we  have  shown  her  what  it 's  going  to 
be. 

With  Ghent' said  she  spreads  out  the  plans,  which  Polly 
examines  with  curiosity. 

These  are  the  plans  for  our  new  house.   You  call 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  99 

us  magnificent.  We  will  show  you  that  we  are 
not.  We  are  overwhelming ! 

WlNTHROP. 

Looking  at  his  watch. 

I  am  afraid  we  must  be  getting  back.  It  grows 
dark  very  suddenly  in  the  canon. 

RUTH. 

To  Polly. 

Well,  then  you  may  come  in,  if  you  will  promise 
to  view  the  simple  present  in  the  light  of  the 
ornate  future. 

Polly  goes  in.    Ruth,  lingering  at  the  door  for  an  in- 
stant, looks  back  anxiously  at  the  men. 

PHILIP. 

Curtly,  to  Ghent. 

If  you  will  permit  me,  I  should  like  a  word  with 
you. 

GHENT. 
Certainly. 

Winthrop  effaces  himself,  making  and  lighting  a  cigar- 
ette,  as  he  looks  out  pver  the  canon. 


ioo  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

PHILIP. 

In  deference  to  my  sister's  wishes,  I  refrain 
from  asking  you  for  the  explanation  which  is 
due  me. 

Ghent  bows  in  silence. 

But  there  is  one  thing  which  I  think  I  am  at 
liberty  to  question. 

GHENT. 
Do  so. 

PHILIP. 

I  hear  of  your  interest  in  a  valuable  mine.  I  hear 
of  plans  for  an  elaborate  house.  Why,  then,  is  my 
sister  compelled  to  peddle  her  own  handiwork 
in  a  public  caravansery? 

GHENT. 
What  do  you  mean?   I  don't  understand  you. 

PHILIP. 

Points  at  the  loom. 

Her  rugs  and  baskets  are  on  sale  in  the  corridor 
of  the  hotel,  fingered  and  discussed  by  the  tourist 
mob. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  101 

GHENT. 
Astonished. 

This  can't  be  true ! 

PHILIP. 
It  is,  however. 

GHENT. 

I  know  nothing  of  it.  I  've  had  to  be  away  a  great 
deal.  I  knew  she  worked  too  hard  over  these 
things,  but  I  took  it  for  a  mere  pastime.  Per- 
haps —  No,  I  can't  understand  it  at  all ! 

PHILIP. 

I  advise  you  to  make  inquiries.  She  has  taken 
pains  to  conceal  her  identity,  but  it  is  known 
nevertheless,  and  the  subject  of  public  curiosity. 
Polly  and  Ruth  come  out  from  the  cabin. 

POLLY. 

To  Philip. 

Take  me  away  quickly,  or  I  shall  never  enjoy 
upholstery  again! 

To  Ruth. 

Please  change  your  mind,  dear,  and  come  with  us 
for  the  night. 


102  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

RUTH. 
No.   I  will  see  you  in  the  morning. 

WINTHROP. 
We  leave  by  the  early  stage. 

RUTH. 

Looking  at  him  quickly. 
You  too? 

WINTHROP. 
Yes,  I  have  decided  so. 

RUTH. 

I  will  be  there  in  good  time,  trust  me. 
She  kisses  Polly  and  Philip. 

Good-bye,  till  morning. 
Gives  her  hand  to  Winthrop. 
Good-bye. 

Philip  ignores  Ghent  pointedly  in  the  leave-takings. 
Polly  bids  him  farewell  with  corresponding  cor- 
diality. 

POLLY. 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Ghent. 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  103 

A s  they  descend  the  canon  path,  she  is  heard  chatting 
enthusiastically . 

O  Phil,  you  ought  to  have  seen  the  inside  of  that 
delightful  little  house ! 

Her  voice  is  heard  for  some  time,  indistinctly.  Ruth,  at 
the  top  of  the  path,  waves  to  them  as  they  descend. 

GHENT. 

Looks  long  at  her,  with  deep  gratitude. 

God  bless  you ! 

She  sits  down  on  the  rocks  of  the  cabin  terrace.  He 
walks  up  and  down  in  anxious  thought.  Once  or 
twice  he  makes  as  if  to  speak.  At  length  he  stops  be- 
fore her. 

You  must  go  in  and  lie  down.  You  are  worn  out. 

RUTH. 

Rousing  herself. 

No,  there  is  something  I  must  tell  you  first. 

GHENT. 

Points  at  the  rug. 

It 's  about  this  —  work  you  have  been  doing? 

RUTH. 

Slightly  startled. 

You  know  of  that? 


104  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

GHENT. 

Your  brother  told  me.  I  should  have  found  it  out 
to-morrow  anyhow. 

Pause. 

Have  you  wanted  money  ? 

RUTH. 
Yes. 

GHENT. 

I   thought  I  —  I   thought  you  had  enough.    I 
have  often  begged  you  to  take  more. 

RUTH. 
I  have  n't  spent  what  you  gave  me.  It  is  in  there. 

She  points  toward  the  house. 

GHENT. 

Astonished. 

You  have  n't  spent  —  any  of  it  ? 

RUTH. 
A  little.   Nothing  for  myself. 


ACT  ii]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  105 

GHENT. 

But  there  has  been  no  need  to  save,  not  after  the 
first  month  or  two.  You  surely  knew  that! 

RUTH. 
Yes,  I  knew  it.   It  was  not  economy. 

GHENT. 

Slowly. 

You  have  n't  been  willing  to  take  money  from 
me? 

RUTH. 

No.  I  know  it  was  small  of  me,  but  I  could  n't 
help  it.  I  have  paid  for  everything.  —  I  have  kept 
account  of  it  —  O,  to  the  last  dreadful  penny ! 
These  clothes  are  the  ones  I  wore  from  my  bro- 
ther's house  that  night.  This  shelter  —  you  know 
I  helped  to  raise  that  with  my  own  hands.  And 
—  and  some  things  I  paid  for  secretly,  from  the 
little  hoard  I  brought  away  with  me.  You  were 
careless ;  you  did  not  notice. 

GHENT. 

Sits  down,  dizzy  from  the  shock  of  her  words. 
I  must  try  to  grasp  this ! 


106  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

There  is  a  silence,  during  which  he  sits  perfectly  mo- 
tionless. At  last  he  turns  to  her. 

Why  —  why  did  you  stand  up  so  plucky,  so 
splendid,  just  now?  Put  a  good  face  on  every- 
thing about  our  life  ?  Call  me  by  my  first  name 
and  all  that  —  before  your  own  people  ? 

RUTH. 

We  are  man  and  wife.  Beside  that,  my  own  peo- 
ple are  as  strangers. 

GHENT. 

Eagerly. 

You  say  that?  You  can  still  say  that  ? 

RUTH. 

Looks  up,  startled. 

Can't  you? 

She  awaits  his  answer  tensely. 

GHENT. 

Desperately. 

O,  I  don't  know.  I  can't  say  or  think  anything, 
after  what  you  have  just  told  me ! 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  107 

RUTH. 

Wails. 

You  can't  say  it !  And  it  is  n't  true !  It  is  we  who 
are  strangers.  —  Worse,  a  thousand  times  worse ! 

GHENT. 
Rises  and  stands  over  her. 

Don't  let  us  dash  ourselves  to  hell  in  one  crazy 
minute ! 

He  pauses  and  hesitates.    When  he  speaks  again  it  is 
with  wistful  tenderness. 

Ruth,  do  you  remember  our  journey  here? 

She  lifts  her  head,  looking  at  him  with  white,  thirsty 
face. 

I  thought  —  it  seemed  to  me  you  had  —  begun 
to  care  for  me. 

RUTH. 

That  night,  when  we  rode  away  from  the  justice's 
office  at  San  Jacinto,  and  the  sky  began  to 
brighten  over  the  desert  —  the  ice  that  had  gath- 
ered here  —  (she  touches  her  heart)  —  began  to  melt 
in  spite  of  me.  And  when  the  next  night  and  the 
next  day  passed,  and  the  next,  and  still  you 
spared  me  and  treated  me  with  beautiful  rough 


io8  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

chivalry,  I  said  to  myself,  "  He  has  heard  my 
prayer  to  him.  He  knows  what  a  girl's  heart  is." 
As  you  rode  before  me  down  the  arroyos,  and 
up  over  the  mesas,  through  the  dazzling  sunlight 
and  the  majestic  silence,  it  seemed  as  if  you  were 
leading  me  out  of  a  world  of  little  codes  and  cus- 
toms into  a  great  new  world.  —  So  it  was  for 
those  first  days.  —  And  then  —  and  then  —  I 
woke,  and  saw  you  standing  in  my  tent-door  in 
the  starlight!  I  knew  before  you  spoke  that  we 
were  lost.  You  had  n't  had  the  strength  to  save 
us! 

GHENT. 

Huskily. 

Surely  it  has  n't  all  been  —  hateful  to  you? 
There  have  been  times,  since  that.  — The  after- 
noon we  climbed  up  here.  The  day  we  made 
the  table ;  the  day  we  planted  the  vines. 

RUTH. 

In  a  half  whisper. 

Yes !  —  Beautiful  days ! 

She  puts  her  liands  suddenly  before  her  face  and  sobs. 

O,  it  was  not  my  fault !  I  have  struggled  against 
it.  You  don't  know  how  I  have  struggled! 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  109 

GHENT. 
Against  what?    Struggled  against  what? 

RUTH. 

Against  the  hateful  image  you  had  raised  up 
beside  your  own  image. 

GHENT. 
What  do  you  mean? 

RUTH. 

I  mean  that  sometimes  —  often  —  when  you  stand 
there  before  my  eyes,  you  fade  away,  and  in  your 
place  I  see  —  the  Other  One ! 

GHENT. 

Speak  plainly,  for  God's  sake!  I  don't  under- 
stand this  talk. 

RUTH. 

Looking  steadfastly,  as  at  an  invisible  shape,  speaks  in 
a  horrified  whisper. 

There  he  stands  behind  you  now !  —  The  human 
beast,  that  goes  to  its  horrible  pleasure  as  not 
even  a  wild  animal  will  go  —  in  pack,  in  pack  ! 


no  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  n 

Ghent,  stung  beyond  endurance,  rises  and  paces  up  and 
down.  Ruth  continues  in  a  broken  tone,  spent  by  the 
violence  of  her  own  words. 

I  have  tried  —  O,  you  don't  know  how  I  have 
tried  to  save  myself  from  these  thoughts.  — While 
we  were  poor  and  struggling  I  thought  I  could 
do  it.  —  Then  —  (she  points  toward  the  canon) 
—  then  that  hole  down  there  began  belching  its 
stream  of  gold.  You  began  to  load  me  with 
gifts  —  to  force  easy  ways  upon  me  — 

GHENT. 
Well,  what  else  did  I  care  to  make  money  for? 

Ruth  does  not  answer  for  a  moment,  then  speaks  slowly, 
taking  the  words  with  loathing  upon  her  tongue. 

RUTH, 

Every  time  you  give  me  anything,  or  talk  about 
the  mine  and  what  it  is  going  to  do,  there  rings  in 
my  ears  that  dreadful  sneer:  "A  dirt-eating  Mo- 
jave  would  pay  more  than  that  for  his  squaw! " 

She  rises,  lifting  her  arms. 

I  held  myself  so  dear !  And  you  bought  me  for 
a  handful  of  gold,  like  a  woman  of  the  street! 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  in 

You  drove  me  before  you  like  an  animal  from 
the  market! 

Ghent  has  seated  himself  again,  elbows  on  knees  and 
face  in  his  hands.  Ruth  takes  slowly  from  her  bosom 
the  nugget  chain  and  holds  it  crumpled  up  in  her 
palm.  Her  tone  is  quiet,  almost  matter-of-fact. 

I  have  got  back  the  chain  again. 

GHENT. 

Looks  tip. 

Chain?  —  What  chain? 

RUTH. 

In  the  same  tone,  as  she  holds  it  up,  letting  it  unwind. 
The  one  you  bought  me  with. 

GHENT. 

Dumfounded. 

Where  the  devil  — ?  Has  that  fellow  been  around 
here? 

RUTH. 

It  would  have  had  no  meaning  for  me  except  from 
his  hand. 


ii2  THE  GREAT    DIVIDE       [ACT  n 

GHENT. 

So  that 's  what  you  've  been  doing  with  this  rug- 
weaving  and  basket-making  tomfoolery  ? 
Ruth  does  not  answer,  but  continues  looking  at  the  chain, 

running  it  through  her  fingers  and  weighing  it  in  her 

hand. 

How  long  has  this  been  going  on  ? 

RUTH. 

How  long  ?  —  How  long  can  one  live  without 
breathing?  Two  minutes?  A  few  lifetimes?  How 
long! 

GHENT. 

It  was  about  a  month  after  we  came  here  that 
you  began  to  potter  with  this  work. 

RUTH. 

Draws  her  hand  about  her  neck  as  if  loosening  some- 
thing there  ;  convulsively. 

Since  then  this  has  been  round  my  neck,  around 
my  limbs,  a  chain  of  eating  fire.  Link  by  link  I 
have  unwound  it.  You  will  never  know  what  it 
has  cost  me,  but  I  have  paid  it  all.  Take  it  and 
let  me  go  free. 

She  tries  to  force  it  upon  him,  with  wailing  entreaty. 
Take  it,  take  it,  I  beseech  you! 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  113 

GHENT. 

Holding  himself  tinder  stern  control. 

You  are  killing  yourself.  You  must  n't  go  on  this 
way.  Go  and  rest.  We  will  talk  of  this  to-mor- 
row. 

RUTH. 

Rest!  To-morrow!  O,  how  little  you  have  un- 
derstood of  all  I  have  said !  I  know  it  is  only  a 
symbol  —  a  make-believe.  I  know  I  am  childish 
to  ask  it.  Still,  take  it  and  tell  me  I  am  free. 

Ghent  takes  the  chain  reluctantly,  stands  for  a  moment 
looking  at  it,  then  speaks  with  iron  firmness. 

GHENT. 

As  you  say,  your  price  has  risen.  This  is  not 
enough. 

He  throws  the  chain  about  her  neck  and  draws  her  to 
him  by  it. 

You  are  mine,  mine,  do  you  hear?  Now  and  for- 
ever! 

He  starts  toward  the  house.  She  holds  out  her  hand 
blindly  to  detain  him. 

RUTH. 

In  a  stifled  voice. 

Wait !  There  is  —  something  else. 


ii4  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE        [ACT  n 

He  returns  to  her,  anxioiisly,  and  stands  waiting.    She 
goes  on,  touching  the  chain. 

It  is  n't  only  for  my  sake  I  ask  you  to  take  this 
off  me,  nor  only  for  your  sake.  There  is  —  an- 
other life  —  to  think  of. 

GHENT. 

Leaning  to  look  into  her  averted  face. 
Ruth !  —  Is  it  true  ?  —  Thank  God ! 

RUTH. 
Now  will  you  take  this  off  me  ? 

GHENT. 
Starts  to  do  so,  then  draws  back. 

No.  Now  less  than  ever.  For  now,  more  than 
ever,  you  are  mine. 

RUTH. 

But  —  how  yours?  O,  remember,  have  pity!  How 
yours  ? 

Philip  appears  at  the  head  of  the  canon  path.  Hearing 
their  voices,  he  waits,  half  concealed. 

GHENT. 
No  matter  how !    Bought  if  you  like,  but  mine ! 


ACT  II]         THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  115 

Mine  by  blind  chance  and  the  hell  in  a  man's 
veins,  if  you  like!  Mine  by  almighty  Nature 
whether  you  like  it  or  not ! 

RUTH. 

Nature !  Almighty  Nature ! 

She  takes  the  chain  slowly  from  her  neck. 

Not  yours !   By  everything  my  people  have  held 

sacred ! 

She  drops  the  chain. 

Not  yours !  Not  yours ! 

She  turns  slowly.  Philip  has  come  forward,  and  slip- 
ports  her  as  she  sinks  half  fainting  upon  his  neck. 

PHILIP. 
To  Ghent. 

I  came  back  to  get  my  sister  for  the  night.  —  I 
don't  know  by  what  ugly  spell  you  have  held  her, 
but  I  know,  from  her  own  lips,  that  it  is  broken. 

To  Ruth. 

Come !  I  have  horses  below. 

GHENT. 
No! 


n6  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  n 

PHILIP. 

Measuring  him. 

Yes. 

Pause. 

GHENT. 
Let  her  say ! 

RUTH. 

Looks  long  at  Ghent,  then  at  the  house  and  surround- 
ings. At  last  she  turns  to  her  brother. 

Take  me  —  with  you.    Take  me  —  home ! 

Philip,  supporting  her,  leads  her  down  the  canon  path. 
Ghent  stands  gazing  after  them  as  they  disappear 
below  the  rim.  He  picks  up  the  chain  and  goes  back, 
looking  down  after  the  descending  figures .  The  sun- 
set light  has  faded,  and  darkness  has  begun  to  settle 
over  the  mountain  world. 

CURTAIN 


ACT  III 


ACT  III 

Sitting-room  of  Mrs.  Jordan's  house  at  Milford  Cor- 
ners, Massachusetts.  An  old-fashioned  New  England 
interior,  faded  but  showing  signs  of  former  distinc- 
tion. The  walls  are  hung  with  family  portraits,  sev- 
eral in  clerical  attire  of  the  eighteenth  century,  one 
in  the  uniform  of  the  Revolutionary  War.  Doors  open 
right  and  left.  At  the  back  is  a  fireplace,  fianked  by 
windows,  the  curtains  of  which  are  drawn.  On  the 
left  is  a  small  table,  with  a  lamp,  books,  and  maga- 
zines;  on  the  right,  near  the  fireplace,  a  sewing-table, 
with  lamp  and  sewing-basket.  A  bookcase  and  a 
writing-desk  occupy  opposite  corners  of  the  room, 
forward. 

Winthrop  and  Philip  stand  near  the  desk,  chatting. 
Polly  is  reading  a  newspaper  at  the  table,  left.  Ruth 
sits  before  the  grate,  sewing ;  her  face  is  turned 
away  toward  the  fire. 

PHILIP. 

Offers  Winthrop  his  cigar-case. 
Have  another  cigar. 

WINTHROP. 

Well,  as  a  celebration. 
Takes  one  and  lights  it. 


120  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  m 

PHILIP. 

Rather  small  business  for  the  Jordan  family,  to 
be  celebrating  a  bare  escape  from  the  poor- 
house. 

WINTHROP. 

Where  did  you  scare  up  the  benevolent  uncle? 
I  never  heard  of  him  before. 

PHILIP. 

Nor  I,  scarcely.    He  's  always  lived  abroad. 

Winthrop,  strolling  about,  peeps  over  Polly  s  shoulder. 

WINTHROP. 

To  Philip,  with  a  scandalized  gesture. 
Stock  reports ! 

PHILIP. 
Her  latest  craze. 

WINTHROP. 
Last  week  it  was  Japanese  Samurai. 

POLLY. 

Crushingly. 

And  next  week  it  will  be  —  Smart  Alecks. 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  121 

The  door  on  the  left  opens,  and  Mrs.  Jordan  enters,  with 
Dr.  Newbury.  During  the  preceding  conversation 
Ruth  has  sat  sewing,  paying  no  heed  to  the  chatter. 
Mrs.  Jordan  and  the  doctor  look  at  her  as  they  come 
in,  but  she  does  not  look  up. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Sit  down,  Doctor,  at  least  for  a  moment. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Seats  himself,  Mrs.  Jordan  near  him. 

I  can  never  resist  such  an  invitation,  in  this 
house. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Dear  Doctor,  you've  been  a  wonderful  friend  to 
me  and  mine  all  these  years,  since  poor  Josiah 
was  taken. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 
But  just  when  you  needed  help  most  — 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

I  know  how  gladly  you  would  have  offered  it,  if 
you  could. 


122  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Your  brother-in-law  in  England  was  able  to  re- 
deem the  property? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Hastily. 

Yes,  yes.  —  But  what  we  are  to  do  for  the  future, 
with  my  little  capital  gone  — 

She  speaks  lower. 

O,  that  dreadful  West !    If  my  children  had  only 
stayed  where  they  were  born  and  bred. 

She  glances  at  Ruth,  who  has  let  her  sewing  fall  in  her 
lap  and  sits  staring  into  the  fire. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Sotto  voce. 

Poor  child! 

Polly  looks  up  from  the  newspaper  excitedly,  holding 
her  finger  at  a  place  on  the  sheet. 

POLLY. 
I  say,  Phil !   Win !   Look  here. 

Philip  and   Winthrop,  who   have   been  chatting  and 
smoking  apart,  come  to  the  table. 


ACT  ill]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  123 

PHILIP. 
What  is  it  now? 

POLLY. 

Tapping  on  the  paper. 

Something  about  your  Arizona  scheme. 

PHILIP. 

Bending  over  her,  reads  : 

"  Alleghany  pig-iron,  93K»  National  Brick  — 

POLLY. 

Pointing. 

No,  there ! 

PHILIP. 

Arizona  Cactus  Fibre,  84. 
He  picks  up  the  paper,  astounded. 
Cactus  Fibre  listed !   Selling  at  84 ! 
He  tosses  the  paper  to  Winthrop. 
This  is  the  last  straw ! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Who  has  been  listening  anxiously. 
What  does  it  mean,  Phil? 


124  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

PHILIP. 

Only  that  the  people  who  bought  our  plant  and 
patents  for  a  song,  have  made  a  fortune  out  of 
them. 

Ruth  has  resumed  her  needle-work.  Winthrop  offers  her 
the  paper,  with  his  finger  at  the  line.  She  takes  it, 
looks  at  it  vaguely,  and  lays  it  on  the  table. 

POLLY. 

Leaning  across. 

Does  n't  that  interest  you? 

RUTH. 

Tonelessly. 
O,  yes. 

She  rises,  lays  her  work  aside,  and  goes  toward  the 
door,  left. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 
As  she  passes  him. 
Won't  you  bid  me  good-night,  my  child? 

RUTH. 

Giving  him  her  hand. 
Good-night,  Doctor. 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  125 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Shaking  his  finger. 

Remember,  no  more  moping!  And  from  to- 
morrow, outdoors  with  you 

Ruth  looks  at  him  vacantly,  attempting  to  smile.  She 
moves  toward  the  door,  which  Winthrop  opens  for  her. 

WlNTHROP. 
Holding  out  his  hand. 
You  must  bid  me  good-night,  too,  and  good-bye. 

RUTH. 

With  a  faint  kindling  of  interest. 
Are  you  going  away? 

WINTHROP. 

Only  back  to  Boston.  Some  time,  when  you  are 
stronger,  you  will  come  down  and  see  our  new 
sailors'  hospital. 

RUTH. 

Yes.  —  Good-bye. 

She  goes  out,  Winthrop  closing  the  door. 


126  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  m 

WlNTHROP. 
To  Dr.  Newbury. 

I  must  be  going  along,  father.  Good-night,  every- 
body! 

Patting  Philip's  shoulder. 
Hard  luck,  old  man ! 

He  goes  out  by  the  hall  door  on  the  right,  Philip  accom- 
panying him. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Looking  after  his  son. 

Brave  boy !  Brave  boy !  He  keeps  up  a  good  show. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
You  think  he  still  grieves  over  her? 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Ah,  poor  chap !   He  's  made  of  the  right  stuff,  if 
he  is  mine. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Let  us  not  talk  of  it.    It  is  too  sad,  too  dreadful. 
Philip  reenters. 


ACT  III]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  127 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

About  part  of  it  we  must  talk. 
He  speaks  so  as  to  include  Philip  and  Polly  in  the  con- 
versation. 

Mrs.  Jordan,  I  don't  want  to  alarm  you,  but  your 
daughter  —  I  may  as  well  put  it  bluntly  —  is  in 
a  dangerous  state. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Frightened. 

Doctor !  I  thought  she  seemed  so  much  stronger. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 
She  is,  so  far  as  her  body  is  concerned. 

Mrs.  Jordan  sits  in  an  attitude  of  nervous  attention, 
gazing  at  the  doctor  as  if  trying  to  formulate  one  of 
many  questions  pressing  upon  her.  Philip  comes  for- 
ward and  sits  by  the  table,  near  them. 

PHILIP. 

Don't  you  think  that  the  routine  of  life  which 
she  has  taken  up  will  soon  restore  her  to  a  normal 
state  of  mind? 

DR.  NEWBURY. 
Perhaps.  —  I  hope  so.  —  I  would  have  good  hope 


128  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

of  it,  if  it  were  not  for  her  attitude  toward  her 
child. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Overwhelmed. 

You  have  noticed  that,  too !  I  have  n't  spoken 
to  you  of  it,  because  —  I  have  n't  been  willing 
to  see  it  myself. 

PHILIP. 

I  can't  see  that  there  is  anything  particularly 
strange  in  her  attitude.  She  takes  care  of  the  brat 
scrupulously  enough. 

POLLY. 
Brat! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Brat! 

To  Dr.  Newbury,  after  a  reproachful  gaze  at  Philip. 

With  the  most  watchful,  the  minutest  care,  but 
—  (she  speaks  in  a  constrained  voice,  with  a  nervous 
glance  at  the  door)  —  exactly  as  if  it  were  a  piece 
of  machinery !  —  Phil,  do  please  lay  down  that 
paper-knife  before  you  break  it!  Your  father 
brought  that  to  me  from  India. 


ACT  III]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  129 

He  obeys,  but  picks  it  up  again  absent-mindedly,  after 
a  few  seconds. 

Pardon  me,  Doctor.  She  goes  about  her  daily 
business,  and  answers  when  she  is  spoken  to, 
but  as  for  her  really  being  here  — 

She  breaks  out. 

Doctor,  what  shall  we  do  ? 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

She  must  be  roused  from  this  state,  but  how  to 
do  it,  I  don't  know. 

POLLY. 

Rising,  with  heightened  color  and  nervous  emphasis. 

Well,  I  do! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Looking  at  her  with  frightened  interrogation. 

Polly  — ? 

POLLY 

What  she  needs  is  her  husband,  and  I  have  sent 
for  him ! 

PHILIP. 

Inarticulate  with  surprise  and  anger. 
You—! 


i3o  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  m 

POLLY. 

Yes,  I.    He's  been  here  a  week.    And  he's  an 
angel,  is  n't  he,  mother? 

Philip  snaps  the  paper-knife  in  two,  flings  the  pieces  to 
the  floor,  and  rises,  pale  with  rage. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Gathering  up  the  pieces  with  a  wail. 

O  Phil!   How  could  you!   One  of  my  most  pre- 
cious relics! 

PHILIP. 
To  Mrs.  Jordan. 

Is  this  true,  or  is  it  another  of  her  tedious  jokes? 

POLLY. 

Protesting. 

O,  my  dear,  tedious ! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Wipes  her  eyes,  after  ruefully  fitting  the  broken  pieces 
of  the  knife  together  and  laying  them  tenderly  on  the 
table. 

You  don't  deserve  to  have  me  answer  you,  but 
it  is  true. 


ACT  ill]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  131 

PHILIP. 
Was  this  action  taken  with  your  knowledge? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

I  do  not  expect  to  be  spoken  to  in  that  tone.  Polly 
telegraphed  merely  the  facts.  He  came  at  his 
own  instance. 

PHILIP. 

But  you  have  consented  to  enter  into  relations 
with  him? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

I  have  seen  him  several  times. 

POLLY. 

Triumphantly. 

And  yesterday  we  showed  him  the  baby!  Such 
fun,  was  n't  it,  mother? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Wiping  her  eyes,  sheepishly. 

Yes,  it  was  rather  —  enjoyable. 

PHILIP. 

He  can't  be  in  this  town.  I  should  have  heard 
of  it. 


132  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

POLLY. 
We  've  hid  him  safe. 

PHILIP. 
Where? 

POLLY. 

Never  mind.  He  's  on  tap,  and  the  sooner  we 
turn  on  the  spigot  the  better,  is  what  I  think. 
Doctor,  what  do  you  think? 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Let  me  ask  you  again  to  state  your  view  of  Ruth's 
case.  I  don't  think  I  quite  grasp  your  view. 

POLLY. 

Pluming  herself,  doctrinaire. 

Well !  Here  on  the  one  hand  is  the  primitive,  the 
barbaric  woman,  falling  in  love  with  a  romantic 
stranger,  who,  like  some  old  Viking  on  a  harry, 
cuts  her  with  his  two-handed  sword  from  the 
circle  of  her  kinsmen,  and  bears  her  away  on  his 
dragon  ship  toward  the  midnight  sun.  Here  on 
the  other  hand  is  the  derived,  the  civilized  wo- 
man, with  a  civilized  nervous  system,  observing 


ACT  HI]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  133 

that  the  creature  eats  bacon  with  his  bowie  knife, 
knows  not  the  manicure,  has  the  conversation 
of  a  preoccupied  walrus,  the  instincts  of  a  jealous 
caribou,  and  the  endearments  of  a  dancing  crab 
in  the  mating  season. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Polly!    What  ideas!    What  language! 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Don't  be  alarmed,  Mrs.  Jordan.  The  vocabulary 
has  changed  since  our  day,  and  —  the  point  of 
view  has  shifted  a  little. 

To  Polly. 

Well? 

POLLY. 

Well,  Ruth  is  one  of  those  people  who  can't  live 
in  a  state  of  divided  feeling.  She  sits  staring  at 
this  cleavage  in  her  life,  like  —  like  that  man  in 
Dante,  don't  you  know,  who  is  pierced  by  the 
serpent,  and  who  stands  there  in  hell  staring  at 
his  wound,  yawning  like  a  sleepy  man. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

O,  Polly,  do  please  try  not  to  get  our  heads  mud- 
dled up  with  literature ! 


134  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE      [ACT  m 

POLLY. 

All  I  mean  is  that  when  she  married  her  man  she 
married  him  for  keeps.  And  he  did  the  same  by 
her. 

Philip  rises,  with  uncontrollable  impatience,  and  goes 
back  to  the  mantelpiece,  against  which  he  leans,  ner- 
vously tearing  a  bit  of  paper  to  pieces. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Don't  you  think  that  a  mere  difference  of  culti- 
vation, polish  —  or  —  or  something  of  that  sort 
—  is  rather  small  to  have  led  to  a  rupture,  and 
so  painful  a  one  too? 

POLLY. 

A  little  nonplussed. 

Well,  yes,  perhaps  it  does  look  small.  But  we 
don't  know  the  particulars;  and  men  are  such 
colossal  brutes,  you  know,  dear  Doctor ! 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

Judicially. 

Yes,  so  they  are,  so  they  are ! 

POLLY. 
And  then  her  pride!   You  know  when  it  conies 


ACT  III]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  135 

to  pride,  Ruth  would  make  Lucifer  look  like  a 
charity-boy  asking  for  more  soup. 

DR.  NEWBURY. 

I  think  perhaps  the  plan  should  be  tried. 

After  a  pause. 

Yes,  I  think  so  decidedly. 

PHILIP. 

I  call  this  a  plot  against  her  dignity  and  peace  of 
mind! 

DR.  NEWBURY. 
Rising. 

Well,  this  conspirator  must  be  going. 

He  shakes  hands  with  Polly  and  Mrs.  Jordan,  takes  his 
hat  and  stick.  Philip  remains  plunged  in  angry  re- 
flection. Dr.  Newbury  taps  Philip  jestingly  on  the 
shoulder  with  the  tip  of  his  cane. 

When  you  have  lived  as  long  as  I  have,  my  boy, 
you'll  —  you'll  be  just  as  old  as  I  am ! 

He  goes  out,  Polly  accompanying  him  to  the  door. 

Philip,  disregarding  his  mother  s  conciliatory  look  and 
gesture  as  he  passes  her,  goes  out  left.  Polly  stretches 
her  arms  and  draws  a  deep  breath  as  the  door  closes 
after  him. 


i36  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  III 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Looking  at  her  severely. 
Pray  what  does  that  mean? 

POLLY. 

O,  Phil  is  such  a  walking  thunder-cloud,  these 
days.   It 's  a  relief  to  get  rid  of  him. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Have  you  done  what  you  could  to  make  his  life 
brighter? 

POLLY. 

I  never  had  a  chance.  He  has  always  been  too 
much  wrapped  up  in  Ruth  to  think  of  me. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

How  can  you  say  such  a  thing?  What  do  you 
suppose  he  married  you  for? 

POLLY. 

Heaven  knows !  What  do  they  ever  do  it  for?  It 
is  a  most  curious  and  savage  propensity.  But 
immensely  interesting  to  watch. 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  137 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

With  a  despairing  gesture. 

If  you  hold  such  heathenish  views,  why  are  you 
so  bent  on  bringing  those  two  together? 

POLLY. 

Soberly. 

Because  they  represent  —  what  Philip  and  I 
have  missed. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
And  pray  what  have  "Philip  and  I"  missed? 

POLLY. 
O,  we  're  all  right.   But  we  're  not  like  those  two. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
I  should  hope  not ! 

POLLY. 

Even  I  believe  that  now  and  then  a  marriage  is 
made  in  Heaven.  This  one  was.  They  are  pre- 
destined lovers! 


138  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Mournfully,  hypnotized  by  the  evangelical  note. 

I  pray  it  may  be  so. 

She  looks  suspiciously  at  Polly. 

You  wretched  girl !  Predestined  lovers  and  mar- 
riage made  in  Heaven,  after  all  you  've  just  been 
saying  about  how  impossible  he  is. 

POLLY. 

He  is  quite  impossible,  but  he  's  the  kind  we  can't 
resist,  any  of  us.  He  'd  only  have  to  crook  his 
little  finger  at  me. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Lifting  her  hands  in  despair. 

What  are  you  young  women  coming  to ! 
Pause. 

He  seems  to  me  a  good  man. 

POLLY. 

Delighted. 

O,  he's  good!  So  is  a  volcano  between  eruptions. 
And  commonplace,  too,  until  you  happen  to  get 
a  glimpse  down  one  of  the  old  volcanic  rifts  in 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  139 

his  surface,  and  see  —  far  below  —  underneath 
the  cold  lava-beds  —  fire,  fire,  the  molten  heart 
of  a  continent ! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

I  only  hope  you  have  some  vague  general  notion 
of  what  you  are  talking  about. 

POLLY. 

Amen.  —  And  now  let 's  consider  when,  where, 
and  how  we  are  to  hale  this  dubious  pair  together. 

MRS.  JORDAN 
One  thing  is  sure,  it  must  n't  be  here. 

POLLY. 
Why  not? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
On  Philip's  account. 

POLLY. 
O,  bother  Philip!  — Was  n't  that  the  doorbell? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Yes.  You  had  better  go. 

Polly  goes  out.  After  a  moment  she  reenters,  excitedly. 


THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  HI 

POLLY. 
It's  Mr.  Ghent! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Amazed. 

Mr.  Ghent? 

Polly  nods  enthusiastically.  Ghent  enters.  He  is  con- 
ventionally dressed,  a  black  string  tie  and  the 
broad-brimmed  hat  which  he  carries  being  the  only 
suggestions  of  Western  costume  remaining.  Mrs. 
Jordan  receives  him  in  a  flutter  of  excitement  and 
alarm. 

Mr.  Ghent  — !  Surely  at  this  hour  — ! 

GHENT. 

I  beg  your  pardon.  There  was  no  other  way. 
I  am  going  West  to-night.  —  Can  I  see  you 
alone? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Looks  at  Polly,  who  goes  out,  pouting. 

Going  West  to-night? 

GHENT. 
Yes.  Trouble  at  the  mine. 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  141 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Is  n't  your  business  partner  competent  to  attend 
to  it? 

GHENT. 

He  's  competent  to  steal  the  whole  outfit.  In 
fact,  is  doing  it,  or  has  done  it  already. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Vaguely  alarmed. 

And  —  my  property  here?  Is  that  involved  in 
the  danger? 

GHENT. 
Certainly  not. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Relieved. 

I  have  gone  through  such  months  of  misery  at 
the  thought  of  losing  the  dear  old  place !  —  If 
Ruth  only  knew  that  we  owe  the  very  roof  over 
our  heads  to  you  — 

GHENT. 

Well,  she  is  n't  to  know,  that 's  understood,  is  n't 
it?  Besides,  it  's  nothing  to  speak  of.  Glad  if  you 
think  it  a  service.  She  would  n't. 


142  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  m 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
You  mean  — ? 

GHENT. 

I  mean  that  if  she  knew  about  it,  she  would  n't 
stay  here  overnight. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Sit  down. 

She  motions  him  to  a>  seat  at  the  table ;  she  sits  near 
him,  speaking  with  nervous  impulsiveness. 

Tell  me  what  is  the   trouble  between   you!    It 
has  all  been  a  dreadful  mystery  from  the  begin- 


ning! 


GHENT. 


Is  it  a  mystery  that  a  woman  like  your  daugh- 
ter — ? 

He  stops  and  sinks  into  gloomy  thought. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Should  have  chosen  you?  —  Pardon  me,  I  don't 
mean  anything  unkind  — 

He  makes  a  gesture  of  brusque  exoneration. 

But  having  chosen  —  and  broken  faith  with  her 
brother  to  do  it  — 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  143 

GHENT. 

Nervously. 

Let 's  drop  that ! 

Pause. 

Mrs.  Jordan,  you  come  of  the  old  stock.  Do  you 
believe  in  the  devil? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Perhaps  not  in  the  sense  you  mean. 

GHENT. 

Tapping  his  breast. 

I  mean  the  devil  inside  of  a  man  —  the  devil  in 
the  heart ! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

O,  yes.  We  are  all  forced  by  our  lives  to  believe 
in  that. 

GHENT. 
Our  lives ! 

He  looks  slowly  round  the  room. 
How  long  have  you  lived  here? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

For  thirty  years,  in  this  house.  Before  I  was 
married  I  lived  in  the  old  house  down  the  road 
yonder,  opposite  the  church. 


144  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

GHENT. 
To  himself. 

Think  of  it ! 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
What  did  you  say? 

GHENT. 

Gathers  himself  together. 

Mrs.  Jordan,  I  want  you  to  promise  that  what  I 
put  in  your  hands  from  time  to  time  comes  to 
your  daughter  as  if  from  another  source. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
You  are  going  away  for  good? 

GHENT. 
Yes. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

You  give  her  up? 

GHENT. 
A  man  can't  give  up  what  is  n't  his. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
What  is  n't  his?   She  is  your  wife. 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  145 

GHENT. 
No.   Never  has  been. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Terrified. 

O,  pitiful  heavens ! 

GHENT. 

I  beg  your  pardon.  —  I  was  only  trying  to  say  — 
I  used  to  think  that  when  a  couple  was  married, 
there  they  were,  man  and  wife,  and  that  was  the 
end  of  it.  I  used  to  think  that  when  they  had  a 
child,  well,  sure  enough  it  was  their  child,  and 
all  said.  —  And  there 's  something  in  that,  too. 

He  stares  before  kirn,  smiting  the  table  and  speaking 
with  low  intensity. 

Damn  me  if  there  ain't  something  eternal  in  it ! 
He  sits  for  a  moment  more  in  gloomy  thought. 

Do  you  think  she  '11  make  up  to  the  young  one, 
after  a  bit? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

O,  surely!  To  think  otherwise  would  be  too 
dreadful ! 


146  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  III 

GHENT. 

I  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know.  —  It 's  kind  of 
lonesome  for  the  little  rooster,  sitting  out  there 
all  by  himself  on  the  world's  doorstep !  —  I  must 
see  her  for  a  minute  before  I  go.  —  Do  your  best 
for  me. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
I  will  do  what  I  can. 

GHENT. 

You  can  put  it  as  a  matter  of  business.  There 
is  a  matter  of  business  I  want  to  talk  over  with 
her,  if  I  can  get  up  the  gumption. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Had  n't  you  better  tell  me  what  it  is? 

GHENT. 

Well,  it 's  about  your  son  Philip.  That  little 
scheme  he  started  out  in  my  country  —  the 
Cactus  Fibre  industry. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Yes? 


ACT  III]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  147 

GHENT. 

I  believe  he  thinks  his  sister's  going  away  when 
she  did  queered  his  game. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

It  was  a  severe  blow  to  him  in  every  way.  She 
was  the  life  and  soul  of  his  enterprise. 

GHENT. 

I  want  her  to  give  him  back  the  Cactus  Fibre 
outfit,  worth  something  more  than  when  he 
dropped  it. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Give  it  back  to  him?   She? 

GHENT. 

Takes  papers  from  his  pocket. 

Yes.  I  happened  to  hear  it  was  knocking  around 
for  nothing  in  the  market,  and  I  bought  it  —  for 
the  house,  really.  Hated  to  see  that  go  to  the 
dogs.  Then  I  looked  over  the  plant,  and  got  a 
hustler  to  boom  it.  I  thought  as  a  matter  of 
transfer,  to  cancel  her  debt,  or  what  she  thinks 
her  debt  - 
Pause. 


148  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Fingering  the  paper  with  hesitation. 

Mr.  Ghent,  we  really  can't  accept  such  a  thing. 
Your  offer  is  quixotic. 

GHENT. 
Quix  —  what? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Quixotic,  it  really  is. 

GHENT. 
Doubtfully. 

I  guess  you're  right.  It  depends  on  the  way  you 
look  at  it.  One  way  it  looks  like  a  pure  business 
proposition  —  so  much  lost,  so  much  made  good. 
The  other  way  it  looks,  as  you  say,  quix  —  urn  — . 
Anyway,  there  are  the  papers!  Do  what  you 
think  best  with  them. 

He  lays  the  papers  on  the  table,  and  picks  up  his  hat. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Wait  in  the  parlor. 

He  opens  the  hall  door. 
The  second  door  on  the  left. 
With  an  awkward  bow  to  Mrs.  Jordan,  he  partly  closes 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  149 

the  door  after  him,  when  the  inner  door  opens  and 
Ruth  appears.  She  goes  to  the  sewing-table  and  picks 
up  her  sewing.  Her  mother,  with  a  frightened  glance 
at  the  half-open  hall  door,  draws  her  back  and  kisses 
her.  Ghent,  unseen  by  Ruth,  remains  standing,  with 
his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Ruth,  you  are  a  brave  girl,  and  I  will  treat  you 
like  one.  —  Your  husband  is  here. 

RUTH. 
Here?  — Where? 

Ghent  pushes  the  door  open,  and  closes  it  behind  him. 
Ruth,  sinking  back  against  the  opposite  wall,  stares  at 
him  blankly. 

MRS.  JORDAN 

He  is  leaving  for  the  West  again  to-night.    He 

has  asked  to  see  you  before  he  goes. 

Ruth  covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  then  fumbles 

blindly  for  the  latch  of  the  door.  Her  mother  res  trains 

her. 

It  is  your  duty  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say.   You 
owe  that  to  the  love  you  once  bore  him. 

RUTH. 
He  killed  my  love  before  it  was  born ! 


i5o  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  m 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

It  is  your  duty  to  hear  him,  and  part  with  him  in 
a  Christian  spirit,  for  our  sakes,  if  not  for  your 
own. 

RUTH. 
For  whose  sake? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

For  mine,  and  your  brother's.  —  We  owe  it  to 
him,  as  a  family. 

GHENT. 

Raises  his  Jtand  restrainingly . 
Mrs.  Jordan  — ! 

RUTH. 
Owe? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

We  owe  it  to  him,  for  what  he  has  done  and 
wishes  to  do. 

RUTH. 
What  he  has  done?  —  Wishes  to  do? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Yes,  don't  echo  me  like  a  parrot !  He  has  done  a 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  151 

great  deal  for  us,  and  is  anxious  to  do  more,  if 
you  will  only  let  him. 

RUTH. 
What  is  this?   Explain  it  to  me  quickly. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

With  growing  impatience. 

Don't  think  to  judge  your  mother! 

RUTH. 
I  demand  to  hear  what  all  this  is !   Tell  me. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Losing  control  of  herself. 

He  has  kept  us  from  being  turned  into  the  street ! 

Ghent,  who  has  tried  dumbly  to  restrain  her,  turns  away 
in  stoic  resignation  to  his  fate. 

He  has  given  us  the  very  roof  over  our  heads ! 

RUTH. 
You  said  that  uncle  — 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Well,  it  was  not  your  uncle !    I  said  so  to  shield 
you  in  your  stubborn  and  cold-hearted  pride. 


152  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

RUTH. 
Is  there  more  of  this? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Yes,  there  is  more.  You  wronged  your  brother 
to  follow  your  own  path  of  wilful  love,  and  now 
you  wrong  him  again  by  following  your  own  path 
of  wilful  aversion.  Here  comes  your  husband, 
offering  to  make  restitution  — 

RUTH. 
What  restitution? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

He  has  bought  Philip's  property  out  there,  and 
wants  you  to  give  it  back  to  him. 

Ruth  stands  motionless  for  a  moment,  then  looks  va- 
cantly about,  speaking  in  a  dull  voice,  as  at  first. 

RUTH. 
I  must  go  away  from  this  house. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

You  don't  understand.  He  claims  nothing.  He 
is  going  away  himself  immediately.  Whatever 


ACT  ill]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  153 

this  dreadful  trouble  is  between  you,  you  are  his 
wife,  and  he  has  a  right  to  help  you  and  yours. 

RUTH. 
I  am  not  his  wife. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Ruth,  don't  frighten  me.     He  said  those  same 
words  — 

RUTH. 
He  said  —  what? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
That  you  were  not  his  wife. 

RUTH. 
He  said  —  that? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 
Yes,  but  afterward  he  explained  — 

RUTH.  . 
Flaming  into  white  wrath. 

Explained !    Did  he  explain  that  when  I  was  left 
alone  that  night  at  the  ranch  he  came  —  with 


154  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

two  others  —  and  when  gun  and  knife  had  failed 
me,  and  nothing  stood  between  me  and  their 
drunken  fury,  I  sold  myself  to  the  strongest  of 
them,  hiding  my  head  behind  the  name  of  mar- 
riage? Did  he  explain  that  between  him  and 
the  others  money  clinked  —  (she  raps  on  the  table) 
—  my  price  in  hard  money  on  the  table?  And 
now  that  I  have  run  away  to  the  only  refuge  I 
have  on  earth,  he  comes  to  buy  the  very  house 
where  I  have  hidden,  and  every  miserable  being 
within  it! 

Long  pause.    She  looks  about  blankly  and  sinks  down 
by  the  table. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Cold  and  rigid. 

And  you  —  married  him  —  after  that? 
She  turns  away  in  horror-stricken  judgment. 
You  ought  to  have  —  died  —  first ! 

Philip  opens  the  door  and  enters,  staring  at  Ghent  with 
dislike  and  menace. 

O  Philip,  she  has  told  me !  —  You  can't  imagine 
what  horrors ! 

Ruth  rises,  with  fright  in  her  face,  and  approaches  her 
brother  to  restrain  him. 


ACT  ill]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  155 

PHILIP. 
Horrors?   What  horrors? 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

It  was  your  fault !  You  ought  never  to  have  left 
her  alone  in  that  dreadful  place !  She  —  she 
married  him  —  to  save  herself  —  from  —  O  hor- 
rible ! 

Philip  waits  an  instant,  the  truth  penetrating  his  mind 
slowly.  Then,  with  mortal  rage  in  his  face,  he  starts 
toward  Ghent. 

PHILIP. 
You  —  dog ! 

Ruth  throws  herself  in  Philip's  path. 

RUTH. 
No,  no,  no ! 

PHILIP. 
Get  out  of  my  way.   This  is  my  business  now. 

RUTH. 
No,  it  is  mine.    I  tell  you  it  is  mine. 

PHILIP. 
We  '11  see  whose  it  is.  I  said  that  if  the  truth  ever 


156  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

came  out,  this  man  should  answer  to  me,  and 
now,  by  God,  he  shall  answer ! 

With  another  access  of  rage  he  tries  to  thrust  Ruth  from 
his  path.  Mrs.  Jordan,  terrified  at  the  storm  she  has 
raised,  clings  desperately  to  her  son's  arm. 

RUTH. 

I  told  him  long  ago  it  should  be  between  us.  Now 
it  shall  be  between  us. 

MRS.  JORDAN. 

Philip!  For  my  sake,  for  your  father's  sake! 
Don't,  don't !  You  will  only  make  it  worse.  In 
pity's  name,  leave  them  alone  together.  Leave 
them  alone  —  together ! 

They  force  Philip  back  to  the  door,  where  he  stands 
glaring  at  Ghent. 

PHILIP. 

To  Ghent. 

My  time  will  come.  Meanwhile,  hide  behind  the 
skirts  of  the  woman  whose  life  you  have  ruined 
and  whose  heart  you  have  broken.  Hide  behind 
her.  It  is  the  coward's  privilege.  Take  it. 

Philip,  with  Mrs.  Jordan  still  clinging  to  his  arm,  goes 
out,  Ruth  closing  the  door  after  them.  She  and  Ghent 


ACT  III]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  157 

confront  each  other  in  silence  for  a  moment,  across 
the  width  of  the  room. 

RUTH. 
God  forgive  me !   You  never  can. 

GHENT. 

It  was  a  pity  —  but  —  you  were  in  a  corner.  I 
drove  you  to  it,  by  coming  here. 

RUTH. 
It  was  base  of  me  —  base ! 

GHENT. 

The  way  your  mother  took  it  showed  me  one 
thing.  —  I  've  never  understood  you,  because  — 
I  don't  understand  your  people. 

RUTH. 

You  mean  —  her  saying  I  ought  to  have  died 
rather  than  accept  life  as  I  did? 

GHENT, 
Yes. 

RUTH. 

She  spoke  the  truth.    I  have  always  seen  it. 


158  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

GHENT. 

Ruth,  it 's  a  queer  thing  for  me  to  be  saying,  but 
—  it  seems  to  me,  you  Ve  never  seen  the  truth 
between  us. 

RUTH. 
What  is  the  truth  —  between  us? 

GHENT. 
The  truth  is  - 

He  pauses,  then  continues  with  a  disconsolate  gesture. 
Well,  there  's  no  use  going  into  that. 

He  fumbles  in  his  pocket,  and  takes  from  it  the  nugget 
chain,  which  he  looks  at  in  silence  for  a  time,  then 
speaks  in  quiet  resignation. 

I  Ve  got  here  the  chain,  that  's  come,  one  way 
and  another,  to  have  a  meaning  for  us.  For  you 
it 's  a  bitter  meaning,  but,  all  the  same,  I  want 
you  to  keep  it.  Show  it  some  day  to  the  boy, 
and  tell  him  —  about  me. 

He  lays  it  on  the  desk  and  goes  toward  the  door. 

RUTH. 
What  is  the  truth  —  between  us? 


ACT  III]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  159 

GHENT. 
I  guess  it  was  only  of  myself  I  was  thinking. 

RUTH. 
What  is  it  —  about  yourself? 

GHENT. 

After  a  pause. 

I  drifted  into  one  of  your  meeting-houses  last 
Sunday,  not  knowing  where  else  to  go,  and  I 
heard  a  young  fellow  preaching  about  what  he 
called  "  The  Second  Birth."  A  year  and  a  half  ago 
I  should  have  thought  it  was  all  hocus-pocus, 
but  you  can  believe  me  or  not,  the  way  he  went 
on  he  might  have  been  behind  the  door  that 
night  in  that  little  justice  den  at  San  Jacinto, 
saying  to  the  Recording  Angel :  '  *  Do  you  see  that 
rascal?  Take  notice  !  There  ain't  an  ounce  of 
bone  or  a  drop  of  blood  in  him  but  what  's  new 
man!" 

RUTH. 

You  think  it  has  been  all  my  fault  —  the  failure 
we  've  made  of  our  life? 


160  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

GHENT. 

It 's  been  no  failure.   However  it  is,  it 's  been  our 
life,  and  in  my  heart  I  think  it 's  been  —  all  - 
right ! 

RUTH. 

All  right!  O,  how  can  you  say  that? 

She  repeats  the  words  with  a  touch  of  awe  and  wonder, 

All  right! 

GHENT. 

Some  of  it  has  been  wrong,  but  as  a  whole  it  has 
been  right  —  right !  I  know  that  does  n't  hap- 
pen often,  but  it  has  happened  to  us,  because  - 
(he  stops,  unable  to  find  words  for  his  idea)  because 
—  because  the  first  time  our  eyes  met,  they 
burned  away  all  that  was  bad  in  our  meeting, 
and  left  only  the  fact  that  we  had  met  —  pure 
good  —  pure  joy  —  a  fortune  of  it  —  for  both 
of  us.  Yes,  for  both  of  us !  You  '11  see  it  your- 
self some  day. 

RUTH. 

If  you  had  only  heard  my  cry  to  you,  to  wait, 
to  cleanse  yourself  and  me  —  by  suffering  and 
sacrifice  —  before  we  dared  begin  to  live !  But 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  161 

you  would  n't  see  the  need !  —  O,  if  you  could 
have  felt  for  yourself  what  I  felt  for  you !  If  you 
could  have  said,  "The  wages  of  sin  is  death!" 
and  suffered  the  anguish  of  death,  and  risen  again 
purified !  But  instead  of  that,  what  you  had  done 
fell  off  from  you  like  any  daily  trifle. 

GHENT. 

Steps  impitlsively  nearer  her,   sweeping  his  hand  to 
indicate  the  portraits  on  the  walls. 

Ruth,  it 's  these  fellows  are  fooling  you !  It 's  they 
who  keep  your  head  set  on  the  wages  of  sin,  and 
all  that  rubbish.  What  have  we  got  to  do  with 
suffering  and  sacrifice?  That  may  be  the  law  for 
some,  and  I  've  tried  hard  to  see  it  as  our  law, 
and  thought  I  had  succeeded.  But  I  haven't! 
Our  law  is  joy,  and  selfishness ;  the  curve  of  your 
shoulder  and  the  light  on  your  hair  as  you  sit  there 
says  that  as  plain  as  preaching.  —  Does  it  gall 
you  the  way  we  came  together?  You  asked  me 
that  night  what  brought  me,  and  I  told  you 
whiskey,  and  sun,  and  the  devil.  Well,  I  tell  you 
now  I'm  thankful  on  my  knees  for  all  three! 
Does  it  rankle  in  your  mind  that  I  took  you  when 
I  could  get  you,  by  main  strength  and  fraud?  I 
guess  most  good  women  are  taken  that  way,  if 


i62  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE      [ACT  in 

they  only  knew  it.  Don't  you  want  to  be  paid 
for?  I  guess  every  wife  is  paid  for  in  some  good 
coin  or  other.  And  as  for  you,  I  've  paid  for  you 
not  only  with  a  trumpery  chain,  but  with  the 
heart  in  my  breast,  do  you  hear?  That's  one 
thing  you  can't  throw  back  at  me  —  the  man 
you  've  made  of  me,  the  life  and  the  meaning  of 
life  you  Ve  showed  me  the  way  to ! 

Ruth's  face  is  hidden  in  her  hands,  her  elbows  on  the 
table.  He  stands  over  her,  flushed  and  waiting. 
Gradually  the  light  fades  from  his  face.  When  he 
speaks  again,  the  ring  of  exultation  which  has  been 
in  his  voice  is  replaced  by  a  sober  intensity. 

If  you  can't  see  it  my  way,  give  me  another 
chance  to  live  it  out  in  yours. 

He  waits,  but  she  does  not  speak  or  look  up.  He  takes 
a  package  of  letters  and  papers  from  his  pocket,  and 
runs  them  over,  in  deep  reflection. 

During  the  six  months  I  've  been  East  — 

RUTH. 

Looking  up. 

Six  months?  Mother  said  a  week ! 

GHENT. 
Your  sister-in-law's  telegram  was  forwarded  to 


ACT  ill]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  163 

me  here.  I  let  her  think  it  brought  me,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  came  East  in  the  next  train  after 
yours.  It  was  rather  a  low-lived  thing  to  do,  I 
suppose,  hanging  about  and  bribing  your  servant 
for  news  - 

Ruth  lets  her  head  sink  in  her  hands.  He  pauses  and 
continues  ruefully. 

I  might  have  known  how  that  would  strike  you ! 
Well,  it  would  have  come  out  sooner  or  later.  - 
That's  not  what  I  started  to  talk  about.  — You 
ask  me  to  suffer  for  my  wrong.  Since  you  left  me 
I  have  suffered  —  God  knows !  You  ask  me  to 
make  some  sacrifice.  Well  —  how  would  the 
mine  do?  Since  I  've  been  away  they  've  as  good 
as  stolen  it  from  me.  I  could  get  it  back  easy 
enough  by  fighting ;  but  supposing  I  don't  fight. 
Then  we  '11  start  all  over  again,  just  as  we  stand 
in  our  shoes,  and  make  another  fortune  —  for 
our  boy. 

Ruth  utters  a  faint  moan  as  her  head  sinks  in  her 
arms  on  the  table.  With  trembling  hands,  Ghent 
caresses  her  hair  lightly,  and  speaks  between  a  laugh 
and  a  sob. 

Little  mother!  Little  mother!  What  does  the 
past  matter,  when  we  've  got  the  future  —  and 
him? 


164  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  in 

Riith  does  not  move.  He  remains  bending  over  her  for 
some  moments,  then  straightens  up,  with  a  gesture  of 
stoic  despair. 

I  know  what  you  're  saying  there  to  yourself, 
and  I  guess  you  're  right.  Wrong  is  wrong,  from 
the  moment  it  happens  till  the  crack  of  doom, 
and  all  the  angels  in  Heaven,  working  overtime, 
can't  make  it  less  or  different  by  a  hair.  That 
seems  to  be  the  law.  I've  learned  it  hard,  but  I 
guess  I've  learned  it.  I've  seen  it  written  in 
mountain  letters  across  the  continent  of  this  life. 
—  Done  is  done,  and  lost  is  lost,  and  smashed  to 
hell  is  smashed  to  hell.  We  fuss  and  potter  and 
patch  up.  You  might  as  well  try  to  batter  down 
the  Rocky  Mountains  with  a  rabbit's  heart-beat ! 
He  goes  to  the  door,  where  he  turns. 

You  've  fought  hard  for  me,  God  bless  you  for  it. 
But  it 's  been  a  losing  game  with  you  from 
the  first! --You  belong  here,  and  I  belong  out 
yonder  —  beyond  the  Rockies,  beyond  —  the 
Great  Divide! 

He  opens  the  door  and  is  about  to  pass  out.  Ruth  looks 
up  with  streaming  eyes. 

RUTH. 
Wait! 


ACT  ill]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  165 

He  closes  the  door  and  stands  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 
Ruth  masters  herself  and  goes  on,  her  eyes  shining, 
her  face  exalted. 

Tell  me  you  know  that  if  I  could  have  followed 
you,  and  been  your  wife,  without  struggle  and 
without  bitterness,  I  would  have  done  it. 

GHENT. 

Solemnly. 

I  believe  you  would. 

RUTH. 

Tell  me  you  know  that  when  I  tore  down  with 
bleeding  fingers  the  life  you  were  trying  to 
build  for  us,  I  did  it  only  —  because  —  I  loved 
you! 

GHENT. 

Comes  slowly  to  the  table,  looking  at  her  with  bewilder- 
ment. 

How  was  that? 

RUTH. 

O,  I  don't  wonder  you  ask!  Another  woman 
would  have  gone  straight  to  her  goal.  You  might 
have  found  such  a  one.  But  instead  you  found 


166  THE  GREAT  DIVIDE       [ACT  m 

me,  a  woman  in  whose  ears  rang  night  and  day 
the  cry  of  an  angry  Heaven  to  us  both  — 
" Cleanse  yourselves!  "  And  I  went  about  doing 
it  in  the  only  way  I  knew  —  (she  points  at  the  por- 
traits on  the  wall]  — the  only  way  my  fathers  knew 
—  by  wretchedness,  by  self-torture,  by  trying 
blindly  to  pierce  your  careless  heart  with  pain. 
And  all  the  while  you  —  O,  as  I  lay  there  and 
listened  to  you,  I  realized  it  for  the  first  time  — 
you  had  risen,  in  one  hour,  to  a  wholly  new  exist- 
ence, which  flooded  the  present  and  the  future 
with  brightness,  yes,  and  reached  back  into 
our  past,  and  made  of  it  —  made  of  all  of  it  — 
something  to  cherish ! 

She  takes  the  chain,  and  comes  closer. 

You  have  taken  the  good  of  our  life  and  grown 
strong.  I  have  taken  the  evil  and  grown  weak, 
weak  unto  death.  Teach  me  to  live  as  you  do! 

She  puts  the  chain  about  her  neck. 

GHENT. 

Puzzled,  not  yet    realizing    the  full  force    of  her 
words. 

Teach  you  —  to  live  —  as  I  do? 


ACT  in]        THE  GREAT  DIVIDE  167 

RUTH. 
And  teach  —  him! 

GHENT. 

Unable  to  realize  his  fortune. 

You  11  let  me  help  make  a  kind  of  a  happy  life 
for  —  the  little  rooster? 

RUTH. 

Holds  out  her  arms,  her  face  flooded  with  happiness. 
And  for  us !  For  us ! 

CURTAIN 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
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This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


SEP  14 '83 

MAR  3  1  1983  RfC'l 


100m-8,'65(F(3232s8)2373 


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